Chapter 7
FINN
The Breakfast War Council
(Or How to Get Evicted in Spectacular Fashion)
The radiator in my room lets out its usual whistle, the pink floral wallpaper continues its personal assault on my eyesight, and the mattress possesses the remarkable ability to be both too soft and too hard at the same time.
Welcome to my life in Glenfield.
I drag myself into the shower.
Cold, obviously, because Mrs. MacLeish’s water heater has apparently decided that producing hot water between seven and seven-fifteen in the morning is an unnecessary luxury.
I get dressed quickly: dark pants, gray turtleneck sweater, jacket.
My urban doctor uniform: Highlands edition.
I have the unpleasant certainty that today will not be any better than the previous ones.
As I head downstairs, I hear voices, which is unusual for a weekday at seven in the morning.
Mrs. MacLeish usually only hosts three or four guests at a time, passing tourists who leave early for their hikes.
But these voices aren’t discussing hiking trails.
They’re talking about… me.
I stop on the last step, hand gripping the banister, and listen.
“Someone has to tell him,” a male voice declares, one I immediately recognize.
Duncan Fraser. The farmer from the pub.
“That’s why we’re all here,” Mrs. MacLeish replies. “For moral support.”
I grimace.
I push open the dining room door and discover a scene straight out of a town council meeting.
Or an improvised tribunal.
Or some horrifying combination of both.
Mrs. MacLeish sits at the head of the table, coffee pot in hand, wearing the solemn expression of a judge about to deliver a sentence.
Around her sit Duncan Fraser, Moira MacTavish—the woman who threw me out of her house on day one of my Scottish descent into hell—Old Angus MacDonald, and two other villagers I vaguely recognize from passing them in the street.
They all stare at me with expressions somewhere between embarrassment and determination.
“Doctor McLeod,” Mrs. MacLeish says, setting down the coffee pot. “Please, have a seat.”
I remain standing in the doorway.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to discuss your… residence here.”
I blink.
“My residence?”
“Your lodging at the bed and breakfast,” she clarifies, as if that should’ve been obvious.
“Is this a joke?”
Duncan Fraser shakes his head gravely.
“We’re very serious, Doctor.”
I look from face to face around the table.
No one smiles.
No one seems embarrassed to be participating in… what exactly?
A Scottish-style social lynching?
“You organized a meeting to discuss my housing situation? At seven in the morning?”
“The timing seemed appropriate,” Mrs. MacLeish replies. “We knew you’d be available before your consultations.”
I walk over to the table, pull out a chair, and sit down.
If I’m going to attend my own trial, I might as well be comfortable.
“All right,” I say. “I’m listening.”
Mrs. MacLeish exchanges a glance with the others, as though seeking silent confirmation, then clears her throat.
“Doctor McLeod, we—that is to say, the residents of Glenfield present here, as well as those unable to attend this morning—have a few concerns regarding your integration into our community.”
“Concerns?” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“You formed a committee to discuss my integration issues?”
“That is correct.”
I rub my eyes.
I haven’t even had coffee yet.
My tolerance for absurdity is dangerously low.
“And you couldn’t simply come speak to me individually?”
“We thought a collective approach would be more constructive,” Duncan Fraser explains.
The word sounds strange when six pairs of eyes are staring at you like you’re a problem that needs solving.
“All right,” I say, crossing my arms. “What exactly are these concerns?”
Mrs. MacLeish pulls a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her apron.
She prepared a fucking list.
Jesus Christ.
I swallow hard.
Please let nobody try to sue me…
A chill runs down my spine, but I quickly pull myself together.
Considering I haven’t really been able to examine any patients since arriving—aside from Maggie McGregor—I’m not exactly at risk.
“If I may begin,” Moira MacTavish cuts in before Mrs. MacLeish even has time to unfold her paper.
“Please do, Moira,” the landlady encourages.
Moira rises from her chair and fixes me with the intensity of a prosecutor.
“You made me uncomfortable during your visit.”
I stare at her blankly for a second.
“I performed a standard medical examination.”
“You spoke to me like I was a file, not a person. Doctor McKinnon reassured me. He knew me.”
“He knew you because he’d been your doctor for forty years.”
“Exactly!” she shoots back triumphantly, as though I’ve just proven her point. “Forty years of dedication, presence, humanity.”
I feel my jaw tighten.
“As far as I know, I can’t travel back in time and know you for forty years.”
I’m not even forty years old!
“That’s the problem,” she mutters as she sits back down.
Duncan Fraser takes over without being invited.
“At the pub, you spilled a pint. On Ewan’s counter. McKinnon never spilled anything. Ever.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“It’s the principle of it,” Duncan replies. “McKinnon respected alcohol.”
“McKinnon could handle his alcohol,” someone adds from the far end of the table.
I turn toward the speaker, a man in his fifties wearing a tweed cap.
“I’m sorry, are you criticizing me for not holding my liquor?”
“It’s a legitimate grievance,” Mrs. MacLeish confirms while consulting her list.
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
Take a deep breath.
Stay calm, Finn. Stay calm.
“Go on.”
Old Angus leans forward, elbows on the table.
“You wanted to send me to the hospital over a simple cough! McKinnon knew I was tough. A Highland man doesn’t need a hospital for that.”
“You had acute bronchitis that could’ve turned into pneumonia,” I snap back. “You had a hundred-and-four-degree fever.”
“McKinnon would’ve treated me at home.”
“McKinnon wasn’t equipped to handle severe pneumonia!”
“He would’ve done it anyway.”
I feel something inside me crack.
“Anyone else want to add something?” I ask in a neutral voice. “While we’re at it?”
The woman in the blue scarf timidly raises her hand.
“You never smile.”
“Excuse me?”
“You never smile,” she repeats louder. “McKinnon smiled all the time. It made people feel comfortable.”
“I smile when there’s a reason to smile.”
“McKinnon always found a reason,” she murmurs.
The man in the tweed cap clears his throat.
“You drive too fast through the village.”
I turn toward him, stunned.
“I drive thirty kilometers an hour.”
“Exactly. Too fast.”
“The speed limit is forty!”
“Yes, but nobody drives forty. It’s disrespectful.”
I close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Count to three.
But I’m running out of relaxation techniques and starting to get seriously irritated.
“Let me summarize,” I say, reopening my eyes. “I’m too cold, I spill drinks, I don’t smile enough, I take my job as a doctor too seriously, and I obey speed limits. Is that correct?”
“In essence, yes,” Mrs. MacLeish confirms.
“And all of this justifies a meeting at seven in the morning?”
“We wanted to make sure everyone could attend,” Duncan explains. “This is important.”
I look at them all.
These people judging me because I’m not a man who isn’t even here anymore.
A man who apparently was some hybrid of Mother Teresa and Superman.
“McKinnon was a saint,” I say slowly. “I understand that. But he left. He’s in the Canary Islands sipping cocktails while I’m trying to do my job in a village that hates me.”
“No one hates you,” Mrs. MacLeish corrects gently. “We simply find you… unsuitable.”
The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Unsuitable for what?”
“For Glenfield. For the Highlands. For… us.”
The silence that follows is as thick as cold porridge.
“All right,” I finally say. “What exactly do you expect from me?”
Mrs. MacLeish exchanges another look with the others, then folds up her list.
“We thought it might be best if you found somewhere else to stay. It would be better for everyone.”
“You’re asking me to leave.”
“We’re strongly suggesting you leave,” she corrects.
I let out a humorless laugh.
“That’s the same thing.”
“Not legally,” the man in the tweed cap points out. “Technically, it’s a suggestion.”
“A unanimous suggestion,” Moira adds.
“In fact,” Mrs. MacLeish says, suddenly recovering a hint of enthusiasm, “perhaps we should vote. To make it official.”
She taps the table twice like a judge with a gavel.
“All those who think Doctor McLeod should find another place to stay?”
Six hands rise.
All of them.
Simultaneously.
“All those who think he should stay?”
No movement around the table.
Out of pure defiance, I raise my own hand.
“One vote against six,” Mrs. MacLeish announces. “The motion passes.”
“The motion,” I repeat. “You turned my eviction into a parliamentary procedure.”
“We’re civilized in Glenfield,” Duncan Fraser replies.
I stand up, my legs slightly trembling.
Not from fear.
From restrained rage.
Frustration.
Exhaustion.
“How long do I have?”
“Twenty-four hours seems like a reasonable timeframe,” Mrs. MacLeish decides after consulting the others with a glance. “I already called a few inns in Inverness. They have vacancies.”
“Very thoughtful of you.”
She either misses the sarcasm or pretends not to hear it.
“McGregor Castle might be looking for a live-in doctor,” Duncan suggests. “Maggie McGregor’s health has been fragile lately, apparently.”
The others nod knowingly.
“The castle,” I repeat.
“It’s a possibility,” Mrs. MacLeish confirms. “A good solution, actually, if you ask me.”
There’s something in their expressions I don’t understand.
But I’m too angry to investigate.
“Thanks for the advice.”
I head toward the door.
“Doctor McLeod?” Mrs. MacLeish calls after me.
I turn around.
“There’s still porridge left if you’d like breakfast.”
I stare at her.
She stares back with bewildering sincerity.
“No thanks,” I finally say. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
I climb the stairs, every step feeling higher than the last.
Once inside my room, I close the door and lean against the wood.
Thoughts crash into each other inside my head.
A village tribunal.
A formal vote.
An eviction disguised as a constructive suggestion.
I pull out my phone and call Nate.
He answers on the third ring.
“Finn? What’s going on?”
“You are not going to believe what just happened to me.”
“Let me guess. The village organized a meeting to kick you out?”
I freeze.
“How do you know?”
His laughter echoes through the phone.
“The Highlands, cousin. The Highlands. It’s kind of a local tradition.”
“A tradition?” I choke out.
“They call it a delayed welcome council. Basically, if you don’t integrate fast enough, they organize a meeting to politely tell you to get lost.”
“That’s completely insane.”
I shake my head.
“It’s the Highlands,” he repeats. “So what are you going to do?”
I stare out the window.
The rain has started falling again.
Of course it has.
“Duncan Fraser suggested McGregor Castle. Apparently Maggie needs a doctor nearby.”
A pause passes before my cousin responds.
“McGregor Castle.”
“Yes.”
“At Maggie’s place.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“That’s a very bad idea,” he finally says.
“It’s either that or stay in Inverness and commute every day. I don’t really have a choice.”
“You always have a choice. You could leave. Go back to Edinburgh. Find another position.”
Leave.
The word echoes through my head like temptation.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I’m not running away. Not again. I’m going to call Maggie McGregor and see what she proposes.”
“Finn…”
“What?”
“Be careful. Maggie McGregor is… special.”
“Special how?”
“You’ll see. Tell me everything tonight at dinner. You can sleep at the house until you figure something out, but fair warning, we only have the living room couch, and it’s not exactly comfortable…”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you.”
He hangs up.
I remain seated on the edge of my bed, phone still in my hand, watching raindrops trace random paths down the windowpane.
“A delayed welcome council.”
McKinnon haunting every conversation.
A village systematically rejecting me.
And now, McGregor Castle.
Could this situation possibly get any worse?
I look at my phone, then my suitcase, then the rain still pouring outside the window.
Somewhere out there, the villagers are probably congratulating themselves for getting rid of the unsuitable doctor.
I stand up and start packing my suitcase.