Chapter 18
Chapter 18
G ertie worked solidly all week, barely noticing the hum of KC gossip when she popped in to see them and only just answering all the questions they had about who was going were—“I can’t tell you! Data Protection!” she’d say loudly when they asked if Phil O’Meara really was visiting that farmer friend of theirs in Larbh again and if so was it long term or short term. When she’d indignantly protest that she couldn’t tell them that, they’d take it as absolute confirmation that the whole thing was back on, and quite right too, lovely lads the pair of them. It was only right they got to have some fun and come on it wasn’t doing anyone any harm, and did he take flowers with him or anything checked in that might have looked like an engagement ring?
But Gertie was busy working very carefully on the loveliest thing she could think of; it was just a scarf, in the softest of wools with different colors of stripes, all carefully chosen to blend in the same palette of ocean greens and pale blues and grays. It was utterly beautiful. Or, in Jean’s opinion, “awfy drab.” It could be from Paul Smith or some expensive Bond Street shop—but it wasn’t. Because when she had asked Calum Frost if he wanted to join them for the ceilidh on Saturday night, he had said, “Sure, why not.” And it was a date.
She had a whole drawer of knitting, but had decided on carrying on the fine stripe in the gray. The KCs couldn’t really help making fun of her—well meaning she knew but still, saying who could possibly be interested in such dull colors and such thin knits in the weather; it just wasn’t practical.
People wanted Fair Isle and bobbles and big chunky buttons; everything she did was too delicate and flimsy and devoid of color; although Gertie didn’t think they were devoid of color. She took the colors from what she saw around her: the greens and grays of the sky, the orange and ochre and ombre of the stones on the beach and the pretty shells—in their country colors—weren’t primary and shocking and in your face. Majabeen came back from visiting relatives in Kolkata every year with loads of bright new wool, full of stories of luminous pink and hot scarlets and gold everywhere, the beautiful colors of her other home (although it was worth pointing out that whilst she was in India she had talked quite a lot about the beautiful cool breezes and fresh wind of her actual home).
Gertie felt so washed out, so plain. But she didn’t like bright colors when she was knitting; she felt in stones and gray and rust and heather and a sense—it sounded so silly she would never have told anyone—that she knitted in a way that connected her to the land she came from; that soothed her eyes just as the motion of making the tiny delicate stitches, over and over again, soothed her. Her knitting had love in it, in every stitch, love learned and handed down through the generations. Would he feel that? And would he like her scarf?
Calum was a rich man, after all, with taste—she could see he was stylish. Maybe. Maybe she just had to be bold. For once. Struan had been different. He had been a ridiculous schoolboy. But Calum was a man.
Monday she wrapped it in some tissue paper with a tartan ribbon, put it behind the desk, and waited.
After a few hours, Calum finally did show up. He had a new idea about ferrying tourists to the mountain, properly called Beann Tur, on Archland, which stood straight up like a fantasti cal sculpture; its odd-shaped protrusions instantly recognizable as the Mermaid Spyglass all over the world. It was a sensational tourist route, known everywhere, and would link perfectly to his Glasgow and Edinburgh services. Plus, Calum was very used to everyone saying yes to him. Morag’s determination not to give in pleased him, but the Mermaid’s Spyglass had two routes—a reasonably straightforward walking path with just one or two bits of actual climbing, which local schools often used for trips, and a terrifying north face for professional and highly skilled climbers only. They didn’t need it overrun with people who didn’t know which was which; the tourists would be in a right pickle.
“Well, I will save them in my helicopter,” said Calum, and Morag made a face. Gavin had pointed out he was absolutely unsuited to flying a helicopter, as helicopters required deep concentration on the matter at hand linked with good hand/eye coordination and the ability to listen to instructions, and he, Calum, had none of those things and really had to stop trying to take his telephone out whilst they were up in the air. Calum had failed to listen, however, and was now on his ninth lesson, all of which was the same lesson repeated, the number one beginner’s lesson, but Calum hadn’t noticed. It did mean, however, he was spending a lot of time in Carso.
“Hello!” said Gertie, who was wearing lipstick again in case he walked in, which he had. He was wearing a jumper that turned up at the collar and twisted round the neck in dark fuchsia, a color so unpleasant Gertie figured the jumper must have been very very expensive, which it was.
“Hey... you,” Calum said, regretting once again not taking that course on remembering employee names.
“Hey,” said Gertie, going pink as ever.
Calum smiled. He had five minutes to kill.
“How’s life treating you?” he said. “Anyone being rude to you again? If they are, let me know and I’ll get on it.”
“Ach!” said Gertie, beaming. “It’s good. I like it a lot. Also I...”
She reached under the counter.
“I got you something. To say thank you.”
Calum frowned. He’d forgotten all about it. “For that mean guy? Oh yeah! Think nothing of it.”
“Well, I did think something of it,” muttered Gertie. She handed him the parcel, feeling very red. Oh my God, what if he thought this was really cringe and stupid?
Calum raised his eyebrows and pulled off the ribbon. He had been expecting—well, something terrible frankly, and was genuinely surprised. “What’s this?” he said. “Is it for me?”
He pulled the scarf out. Truly it was a thing of beauty, Gertie thought. The softest of blues and greens absolutely matched his eyes; if he wore it, his face would change like the weather. She smiled excitedly.
Calum stared at it. “You knitted me a scarf?” he said.
Gertie nodded.
“Uh. Thank you,” said Calum, nonplussed. There was a moment when Gertie thought he was going to put it on. But he didn’t.
“See you Saturday,” she said quietly.
“Uh-huh,” said Calum. “Great! Thanks!” and he waved heartily, and went off to join Jim and Gavin.
Gertie watched him go. Wow. He had been so completely overcome, he had barely known what to say.