The Hills is Lonely (30 page)

‘Why, Sandy, the bridegroom, of course,' the taxi-driver explained. ‘He's gone off in his boat round to Lochnamor this mornin' before they were up, they're tellin' me, and there's no sign of him comin' back yet. I've been waitin' over half an hour on him.'

I looked at my watch. It said ten minutes past two and the wedding was timed to take place at three. Lochnamor was an hour away by boat, but there was a rough track across the glen which, if it proved to be negotiable all the way, should take ‘Joanna' there in about twenty minutes. The taxi-driver's expression was eloquent.

‘I suppose you want me to take my car through the glen and get him?' I said.

‘Well, Miss Peckwitt,' be answered humbly. ‘I'm thinkin' it's the only way to get hold of the man, and this thing'—he paused and glared with perfidious disdain at the front wheels of his luxury model—‘she's too low in her body for me to think of tryin' it.'

‘There's precious little time,' I pointed out, ‘and I have yet to feed the cows.'

The taxi-driver alighted quickly from the car. ‘I'll feed the cows myself,' he offered obligingly.

I thanked him and started off towards ‘Joanna'. ‘And you'll have to water them too,' I called as I ran. ‘The well is over there.'

‘Ach, I'll put them outside for a while and they'll drink their own water,' returned the taxi-driver.

‘Oh,' I said unhappily, but shrugging my shoulders I left him to do what he pleased, for there was no time to argue. I was glad that ‘Joanna's' engine had already been running that morning so that she responded to the first pull on the starter and I was quickly able to back and turn her into the road. Putting my foot down as hard as I dared, I headed her towards the glen. The track was sinuous and rutty; loose stones flew on all sides of us and rattled with distressing frequency on the car's underparts. The bends were nerve-racking, but she skidded round them contemptuously with the air of a thoroughbred on familiar ground, and we eventually reached the spot where the track widened into the shore of a tiny, sheltered bay. The tide was well out. and high and dry above the line of surf was a fishing-boat on ‘legs', beneath which two dungaree-clad figures crouched industriously scraping barnacles off the keel. They were far too engrossed in their task to notice my arrival and doubtless the noise of the sea had muffled the sound of ‘Joanna's' engine. I turned the car back towards the way we had come and then raced down to the beach.

‘Hey, Sandy!' I addressed the bridegroom, gasping as I inhaled the strong smell of fish, seaweed and tar which hung around the boat. ‘You're going to be terribly late for your wedding.'

‘Good God!' burst out one of the figures as it squirmed from beneath the boat. It's surely not today, is it?'

Sandy, a slim, brown-haired fellow, sporting a moustache that made him look as though he had just taken a bite out of a hedgehog, stared incredulously first at me and then at the other dungareed figure who had emerged from under the boat's stern. It was obvious from their expressions that both had completely forgotten the wedding.

‘I did want to bottom her today,' mourned Sandy, staring sadly at the half-scraped hull of his boat.

‘You'll be bottomed yourself if you don't turn up for your wedding,' I threatened him with a smile.

‘I'll have to go.' Despairingly he turned to his confederate. ‘You'll have to stay and bottom her by yourself,' he told him.

‘But I'll need to come. I'm your best man,' expostulated the other.

‘Wedding or no wedding, we canna' leave the boat like this for the tide to come up,' objected Sandy.

‘We could rush back in time for the tide maybe?' suggested his partner hopefully.

Sandy appeared to reflect for some moments on the propriety of rushing away from his own wedding in order to attend to a boat.

‘No, I might not be able to manage it' he said, his tones betraying the degree of temptation he had been subjected to. ‘You'd best stay and see to it yourself.'

Reluctantly the best man resigned himself to his martyrdom and I set about coercing the vacillating tarspattered bridegroom into ‘Joanna'. Once again I drove at reckless speed through the glen and at ten minutes to three Sandy, impatient enough by now, tumbled out of the car and into the arms of his family who were waiting on the doorstep. His mother was holding his wedding trousers; his aunt was holding his shirt and his grandmother his jacket; his father, an old man almost crippled with rheumatism, hovered in the background meekly offering a collar and tie and a pair of shoes. Outside on the road the taxi-driver, his hair and shirt front decorated with stray wisps of hay, fretted uneasily beside the luxury model. How the family accomplished the feat of inserting Sandy into his wedding attire I have no idea, being intent on manœuvring ‘Joanna' round and past the taxi; but as I drove away home I caught a glimpse of the bridegroom rushing down to the burn, both hands clutching at his trousers, followed by the taxi-driver-cum-cowman brandishing a pair of braces and a towel. I had pulled up outside Morag's house and was scrambling out of my seat when the taxi, with engine revving and horn blasting merrily, surged past. A man's white handkerchief fluttering from one lowered window of the car acknowledged my small part in the proceedings.

There remained still the task of making myself presentable and it was plain that, even if the wedding were delayed by the late arrival of the bridegroom, I should still be lucky not to miss the ceremony. With fumbling fingers I changed into my suit and, after a quick glance around the kitchen to ensure that everything was in order, hastened once more to ‘Joanna'. Just as I was settling into my seat a voice hailed from a distance and, fuming with impatience, I craned my neck round the door to see the rheumaticky figure of the bridegroom's father toiling gallantly up the hill towards me. Breathlessly and with the sweat pouring from his furrowed brow, he attained the car and collapsed against it with a plaintive bleat.

‘Are you coming to the wedding?' I asked.

‘No,' he panted sorrowfully. ‘Somebody has to stay and see to the cows.'

‘Don't tell me then that Sandy has forgotten the ring,' I prompted, pulling at the starter.

‘No indeed. It's worse than that.'

‘Worse?'

‘Aye, he's forgotten this,' announced the old man gravely, and produced from his pocket a small bundle wrapped in a white handkerchief.

‘What is that?' I asked suspiciously.

‘It's his teeths,' he replied, ‘and he canna' get marrit without them.'

‘Oh, they won't really make any difference,' I consoled, but the old man drew himself erect and spat with unexpected vigour.

‘It will to her,' he said. ‘She's always at him, at him, like a mouse at a taty, for not wearin' his teeths, and if he turns up for the weddin' without them, sure the bitch will turn on him even in the church itself.' He spat again. ‘You'll take them for him will you?' he cajoled, and there was both distress and urgency in his voice. ‘You'll haste, won't you?'

I took the handkerchief-wrapped bundle and laid it on the seat beside me and then, bidding the old man goodbye, I let in the clutch. ‘Joanna' screamed her way up the hill. By the time I had covered a few miles the humour of the situation had begun to strike me, but, even before I could raise a smile, a wildly gesticulating figure appeared in the middle of the road. ‘Someone's been left behind,' I grumbled to myself as I braked to a stop. An old man, whose attire was in no way suitable for a wedding, rammed at the window with fingers that must have been about as sensitive as skittles.

‘Ach, but it's cold, cold, cold.' he began conversationally as I lowered the window.

‘It is,' I agreed shortly. ‘But I'm in a tearing hurry. What is it you want?'

He looked mildly hurt at my brusqueness. ‘Are you goin' through the village?' he enquired, leaning his elbows on the door of the car.

‘I am. Please tell me what you want,' I repeated testily.

Shocked by my reply, his manner developed a certain hauteur.

‘She's wantin' to know will you take a chicken to the post for her?' He nodded condescendingly towards the house where presumably ‘she' was.

‘I can't wait one second more,' I told him, one foot already on the accelerator and the other on the clutch. ‘If it's quite ready I'll take it.'

‘She's just after finishin' pluckin' it now,' he said languidly. ‘Will you no be comin' in for a wee moment?'

‘Look here,' I replied exasperatedly, ‘I'm on my way to the wedding and I've simply got to get there in time because there'—I pointed—‘in that bundle are the bridegroom's false teeth and he cannot get married without them.'

‘Can he no?' queried the old man.

‘No he can't,' I replied tersely.

His countenance assumed an expression of mingled pity and curiosity. ‘Why can he no get marrit without his teeths?' he enquired, and then giving me an immoral wink went on: ‘Sure, he'll no be marryin' her just to bite her, will he?'

Fiercely I let in the clutch and ‘Joanna', leaping forward like an outraged debutante, left him gurgling contentedly at his own witticism. The halt, though it had entailed only a few seconds' delay, made me despair of ever reaching the church on time and I drove as I had seldom driven before. The minute hand of the clock on the dashboard seemed to race almost as madly as the car and it was pointing to nearly half past three when I at last arrived outside the church. Debating as to how I was to get the precious bundle to Sandy, I hurried into the porch where, pausing to take stock of the situation. I heard the minister intoning the marriage service in a voice that was suggestive of the spell-casting demons of pantomime. Hope sank, but rose again as I realised that the service had only just begun and that there were still some few minutes before the fatal moment arrived. Stealthily I tiptoed up a side aisle to the front pew, before which were grouped the young couple, the two bridesmaids, the sponsor and the taxi-driver who, having already acted as valet, driver and cowman, had now been pressed into service as groomsman. Taking a deep breath which served as an aromatic reminder that Sandy's toilet had indeed been a sketchy one—the church reeked with the mingled odours of fish, seaweed and tar—and ignoring the faintly hostile glances of the occupants of the pew, I urged them to make room for me. The slight disturbance made the minister look up from his prayer book and direct upon me a frankly enquiring stare. I gazed with the utmost reverence at the hassock by my feet. Cautiously I nudged my neighbour. ‘Here are Sandy's teeth,' I hissed. ‘Pass them on; don't drop them whatever you do.' With bated breath I watched over the progress of the white bundle along the pew until a plainly audible ‘Hi!' told me that it had nearly reached its objective. The taxi-driver stepped back a pace, reached behind him surreptitiously, stepped forward again and a moment later, after a barely perceptible movement of his arm, the teeth were safely deposited in Sandy's pocket. It was just in time.

‘Wilt thou take this woman …' the minister began. Sandy's hand went into his pocket and then to his mouth. He appeared to be stifling a prolonged yawn. ‘… so long as you both shall live?' concluded the minister. The bridegroom's ‘Adam's apple' rose and fell twice.

‘I will,' he responded thickly.

The minister turned to the bride and repeated the question. Sandy took the opportunity to bestow upon her a devastating smile.

‘… so long as you both shall live?' The minister's voice ceased and the congregation waited in hushed expectancy. The bride flicked her husband-to-be with a brief, speculative glance.

‘I will,' she replied firmly.

The tension over, I relaxed as well as I could into the small portion of pew allotted to me by the well-cushioned relatives. The minister closed his book and the organist, a diminutive woman with a round, rosy face and tight coils of hair, which supported a blue straw hat heavily overladen with cherries, suddenly began to writhe like a hooked mackerel as her short legs laboured at the pedals. Almost before the hymn was announced the organ whinnied forth into the opening bars of ‘The Voice that breathed o'er Eden', in which the congregation joined half-heartedly. At the end of the service the principals disappeared into the vestry and as soon as the door closed upon them the organist snatched off her high-heeled shoes and began to massage her feet tenderly. The congregation broke into a buzz of conversation which included a good deal of awed comment on my late arrival and the reason for it. My explanation attracted so much interest that in no time at all quite a number of people had gathered round me asking for more details. Even the little organist tiptoed from her stool to stand, in stockinged feet, listening to my story. I had just reached the point where the old man had wanted me to wait for the hen, when, without warning, the vestry door swung open and the happy couple emerged, both grinning toothily. The guests melted back to their places and the organist, after one horrified glance at the vestry, flew back to the organ and strove vainly to reach the pedals. The bride, who was expecting to hear the triumphal strains of the Wedding March—having paid for it—looked questioningly towards the mute organ beneath which a dishevelled little figure was now searching desperately for her shoes. The blushing bridegroom, with arms stiff and fists clenched, studied his feet intently, while in the background the minister could be seen furtively wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

I slipped outside to get my camera from ‘Joanna' and found that the threat of rain had now resolved itself into a fitful shower. I had no sooner taken up my position than the bridal couple and their retinue appeared at the door of the church, belatedly accompanied by a crashing discord on the organ which matched in harmony the cerise and orange of the well-washed, but quite un-ironed, bridesmaids' dresses. The music came to an abrupt conclusion, and almost simultaneously the determined but rather rumpled little organist came charging through the church door, still in stockinged feet, and clutching in one hand an outsize bag of what I took to be confetti; in the other, the cherry-laden hat. I checked my camera, besought the guests to stand out of the way of the group, clicked a few times and nodded that I had finished. I was wishing that rice or confetti had been obtainable, but the grocer had run out of the first and had never stocked the second. I found old Murdoch beside me.