Chapter Thirteen
‘Come in?’
Some hours later, the door to my room opened to reveal Callum’s imposing frame.
He was so at odds with the antique elegance of the house, all awkward angles, with his head ducked, one hand in his coat pocket and the other wrapped around the back of his head, a sharp elbow pointing up to the ceiling.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked as he stepped into my room, a quick glance in either direction to make sure no one was watching as though we were still teenagers and might get told off.
‘As well as anyone else with a pretend migraine,’ I said, closing my book. ‘Callum, what does daeless mean?’
‘Helpless,’ he replied. ‘Feeble. Why?’
‘Never mind.’
I made a face at the empty doorway behind him.
‘Mince pie?’ he offered, holding out a small plate. ‘Mum made them herself.’
‘I think you’ll find I was also involved,’ I said. ‘But no thanks, I’ll pass. Exciting afternoon down on the farm?’
‘It would take a very generous definition of the word exciting for me to say yes.’ He peered around the room, his eyes briefly resting on my rumpled bed covers before skirting quickly away.
‘But I’ve got good news, we’ve been given permission to decamp to the pub for the rest of the evening.
Dad lobbied hard for a family Scrabble tournament but I told him you needed some fresh air. ’
‘The fresh air of the pub.’
‘You can stay here if you’d rather, I’ll get Fi to send something up.’
I had one foot in a boot before he even finished speaking. ‘Give me three seconds to get ready. No offence to Fiona.’
‘You could’ve chucked it in the fireplace and there’d have been none taken,’ he said with a laugh. ‘She’s tough as nails. Has to be after forty years of being married to Mal.’
‘Forty years?’ I whistled, impressed. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’
‘Tell her that,’ Callum advised. ‘She’ll be thrilled.’
With one hand on the wooden post of my canopy bed to steady myself, I rammed my other foot into the other boot. ‘You do realise it’s another weird thing, though? Having a housekeeper. And a driver. And staff in general.’
His great shoulders hunched together, expression guarded. ‘They’re not staff. Fiona and Mal are part of the family, Balmaclay is as much their home as mine. Mal isn’t the driver, he’s the ghillie.’
‘Which means?’
‘It’s difficult to explain,’ he said as I wound a scarf around my neck until only my eyes were visible.
‘In layman’s terms a ghillie is someone who stewards a specific area of land in the Highlands, in Mal’s case, our twenty thousand acres.
But it’s more than a job. Mal was born into the role, he’s the fifth generation of his family to work alongside my family. ’
‘Thank you for breaking it down to a layman,’ I said waiting for his wry smile. ‘So he’s, like, an indentured park ranger?’
‘Not quite. Mal is and always was free to go and do whatever he wants with his life but if you were to ask him, he’d tell you there was never a question of him doing anything else.’
‘And after him?’
‘He’s two boys, both at university, both fighting over the job. I expect they’ll share the duties to be honest.’
‘What about Fiona?’ I asked, pulling on my mittens. ‘Also destined to be the world’s finest vegan chef?’
At that, he laughed.
‘Fi was born to keep Mal in line and she’ll tell you that herself. She moved into Sleagh Cottage with his family after they got married and started helping his mum around Balmaclay. When Eileen passed on, she took on the job full time.’
‘She must really love that man. Imagine living with your in-laws.’
Callum grabbed my coat from the rack beside the door and held it out for me. I slipped my arms through the sleeves, privately enjoying the gesture.
‘Derek and Lizzie would treat you like a queen.’
‘Except they’ll never be my in-laws,’ I pointed out, ‘because I’m not really your girlfriend.’
Fully clad in my winter gear, I turned to face him. He was so close, my breath hitched in my chest and a tiny gasp escaped. Callum’s eyes held mine as though he were searching for something and I blinked, suddenly afraid of what he might find.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ he said softly, pulling my hat down over the tops of my ears.
Inside my mittens, my fingers scrunched into tight little fists.
‘Which part?’
‘Dealer’s choice.’
He took a small step back and I stumbled forward, the space he left between us too much for gravity to bear.
‘Mum must have been keeping notes after every phone call,’ he added apologetically. ‘I’d forgotten half the stuff I told her about you.’
After taking a moment to collect myself, I crossed the room to retrieve my phone and put some necessary distance between us.
‘About Caroline,’ I corrected. ‘Not me.’
Eyes down, he patted his pockets in traditional McClay-man fashion.
‘I thought we could walk to The Clach if you’re game?’
Slipping my phone, a hair tie, two lip balms and a packet of Polos into my pocket, I gave him a questioning look. ‘The Clach?’
‘The Clachnaharry,’ he explained. ‘My local, back in the day. It’s not so far.’
My questioning look transformed into a suspicious squint.
‘How far is not so far?’
‘Down the lane and along a bit. What Mal would call a wee bimble.’
‘Then I’m game,’ I agreed, glancing proudly down at my virgin hiking boots. Now was their time to shine. ‘As long as it’s not too cold.’
Tucking his gloveless hands into his pockets, Callum smiled as I passed through door, avoiding bodily contact at all costs.
‘Practically summer out tonight,’ he assured me. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘I literally hate you,’ I declared as Callum opened the door to the pub, trying not to laugh. ‘No hyperbole, no exaggeration. If you were drowning and I had a length of rope, I would use it to make a scratching post for my neighbour’s cat before I tossed it to you.’
It turned out Callum’s interpretation of distance and temperature was wildly different to my own.
Walking three miles in sub-zero temperatures was bad enough but I’d also been forced to learn the hard way about the perils of breaking in brand new hiking boots.
Hobbling over to a wooden chair by the fire, I almost wept with joy as I collapsed into a chair, taking the weight off my poor, burning feet.
‘Will you forgive me if I get you a drink?’ Callum asked, standing over me.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But get me one anyway.’
‘Anything in particular?’
Grasping the tops of my woollen mittens with my teeth, I peeled them away from my hands, eight fingers and two thumbs cramping inside.
‘Cup of tea and some crisps and some nuts and anything else they’ve got that’s edible.’
‘I’m not asking for tea in the pub.’
Callum balked and I fixed him with a hard stare.
‘If I don’t get a hot drink, I’m going to tell your dad we both want to watch his holiday videos every single night until we leave,’ I replied. ‘And I’m going to pause it to a question every fourteen seconds.’
Shaking his head but smiling again, Callum left me at the table, heading to the bar with his orders.
As the roaring fire burned the chill from my bones, I watched him cross the room, long legs and easy grace.
It was a stark contrast to the way he’d moved around his family home, so tightly wound, like he was afraid to make a sound.
Here, he seemed so much more relaxed, drawn up to his full height, a ready smile on his face for anyone who crossed his path on the short walk to the bar.
Callum might’ve grown up in Balmaclay but he stuck out like a sore thumb.
No, more like a sore middle finger, taller and more pissed off.
Even when the uneven ceiling sloped so low he had to stoop, Callum fit right in at The Clach.
Dark wood and wine-red leather, cardboard coasters bearing the logos of brands and breweries. Warm, familiar and easy.
I loved a good pub. It was the one thing I’d shared with my dad, Thursday nights down at the Three Legged Stool for the weekly quiz.
Whether or not a thirteen-year-old should be at the pub every Thursday was neither here nor there but the Christmas decorations at The Clach reminded me of home, antiques in their own right.
A silver tinsel tree that had seen better days sat in the window, angels made from the cardboard inner tubes of toilet rolls and dated doilies lined the fireplace and someone had tied repurposed string between two mounted stag heads to display their Christmas cards like clean washing.
The thought of the white-haired man behind the bar going into a cupboard or an attic to bring them out year after year made me smile.
Everything about this place was welcoming, everything was a comfort. Even to a southern jessie like me.
Once I had defrosted well enough to manipulate my fingers again, I picked up the small handwritten menu that lay on our little table.
Beer-battered haddock and chips, mussels in a cream and garlic sauce, Scottish sirloin steak, langoustines with homemade bread, haggis bhajis and cullen skink.
My stomach growled with hunger and I knew I’d gratefully take whatever could be ready the fastest, even cullen skink, whatever it was.
My only Cullen frame of reference was vampiric and this didn’t look much like a Twilight-fan pub.
‘This is the best I could do.’
Callum reappeared carrying a steaming glass mug and two tumblers full of what looked like whisky.
‘James behind the bar says this’ll warm you up. Coffee first then a glass of Old Pulteney.’
I took a cautious sip from the mug, fumes igniting inside my nose. The coffee had been spiked with whisky. Or someone had diluted a mugful of whisky with coffee, it was hard to tell.
‘And I’m drunk,’ I announced, eyes watering. ‘Irish coffee?’
‘Scottish coffee.’ He folded himself into the chair next to mine, eyes twinkling. ‘Because it’s made with Scottish whisky, and because James said so. Don’t think he won’t turn you back out in the cold if he hears you talking like that.’