Chapter 25 #2
It didn’t take long to put together a thrifty gift basket with a book about wildflower identification, some crochet hooks and a bag of unopened yarn balls still with their paper loops around their middles, along with the lovely old faceted beaded necklace, a mid-twentieth-century yellow rose-print teacup and saucer, and an Enya CD.
‘Do you think Roz’ll like this?’ Florrie asked as Hamish helped her access her wallet in her pocket.
‘I think it’ll be her favourite thing all Christmas,’ he told her assuredly, carrying the bag for her. ‘I’ll make sure you get allocated her in the draw, OK? I’ll do a bit of jiggery-pokery with the names.’
She’d laughed at the expression, but then did a double take as they left the bright strip lighting inside the shop and stepped into the bustling winter evening. ‘Hold on. You’re going to the party?’
‘I might. Now the volunteers are helping me with my exhibition.’
‘Do you think they will. Help you, I mean?’
‘God, yes! That’s the kind of thing those guys thrive off, and it’ll be a big deal, believe me. They’ll always go the extra mile when it comes to one of their own.’
She’d been about to say she was sorry that she wouldn’t be around to see it, feeling suddenly put out, not being one of the town’s own, but that would be insensitive, and very silly, given the part she’d played in bringing about this outpouring of ski centre nostalgia.
‘Come this way,’ Hamish was saying. ‘Out of towners have a special spot by the tree for the switch-on, best view in the house.’
The countdown was beginning over the speakers. They cut through the great mass of people, all shouting ‘ten, nine, eight…’
‘Is that true?’ she asked over the din as they arrived at the old post box and he helped her up onto its stone plinth, before she figured out he’d been teasing her.
He stayed down on the pavement but steadied her with his hands on her jacket pockets, and they both tipped their heads back to catch the moment when white lightbulbs strung along one and a half kilometres of brand-new flex burst into gleaming brilliance, followed by the blinking on of every kilted dancing Santa, singing angel and blushing snowman for as far as Florrie could see in both directions along the high street.
The whole town roared their appreciation and, seemingly without any prompting that Florrie was aware of, burst into a chorus of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’.
The cold seemed banished in that moment as Florrie looked down at Hamish’s blue eyes staring back up at her.
It would be so easy to kiss him right now.
If this was one of the Christmas movies she used to watch with her mother and Omma before she left home, there’d be a sweet, perfect kiss under the newly repaired lights.
Florrie’s heart however, reminded her not to be cruel, and Hamish seemed to pick up on her resolve, tearing his eyes from hers.
‘All that’s missing is the snow,’ he said, as he helped her down off the little plinth.
‘Have you tried making an offering to Ullr?’
Hamish didn’t know what she was on about.
‘The god of snow, and skiers, and lots of other cold things, probably. I don’t think we actually studied him in Barneskole, but I know there are festivals where people ask him to send the snow.’
The gleam in Hamish’s eyes told her he liked this idea. ‘How would I do such a thing?’
She shrugged as they walked along. ‘I have no clue.’
‘Listen.’ Hamish stopped her, once they’d returned their cider cups to the bar stall. ‘You know your list of must-see Cairn Dhu attractions?’
‘Are you saying there’s something that can top the milk float rides and the hot dogs?’
He looked so hopeful, and so handsome, his blue eyes gleaming in the Christmas illuminations. ‘How about a private Northern Lights viewing party at an exclusive nightclub with mountain views?’
‘Oh.’
‘Since you’re leaving tomorrow and you haven’t watched the sky from my bar yet.’
She thought of her suitcase lying unpacked up in the mezzanine in the dark empty shed, her report still unsent to the Regional Authority, her father nagging her, her tickets not yet booked.
All the many, many reasons why she should immediately turn for the opposite side of town, but instead she felt herself nodding in agreement.
‘How could I say no to an offer like that?’
Leaving the high street behind, they made for the silent mountainside.
By the time they got to the doors of the Ptarmigan nightclub, Florrie had yawned twice already.
‘It’s the painkillers, I think,’ she told him, ‘I slept most of the day too.’
‘How about, instead of sitting in a dark club, you come to my rooms upstairs to watch for the aurora?’ He said it so innocently, she knew it was safe to ask him if he’d make her one of his nice coffees.
‘Happy to be your barista,’ he’d said, grinning.
Once inside the familiar cosy flat, and after he’d helped her out of her boots and mittens, Florrie considered dropping onto the sofa but realised the window with its mountain and sky views was next to his bed in the corner behind the bookshelf screen. ‘Is it all right if I sit there?’ she asked.
Hamish was heating the water in his moka pot over the gas ring. ‘Of course. I’m guessing you’ve seen the northern lights lots of times.’
‘A few, yeah,’ she said in a modest way that told him she’d seen them hundreds of times. ‘How about you? How often have your northern lights spotting nights turned into actual sightings?’
‘Oh…’ Hamish toted up the number in his head with exaggerated concentration, his eyes narrowing. ‘I’d say probably… thrice?’
Florrie’s laughter, loud and unrestrained, burst in the room like song.
Hamish hadn’t heard anything quite like it.
He wished she’d do it again; his flat was always so quiet with just him up here.
Maybe it was a good thing he’d be looking for a new place to stay now that she’d revealed to him exactly how quiet and uneventful his life had been up until now.
He couldn’t imagine going back to his old ways of non-stop work mixed with quiet solitude.
When the coffee was ready, he brought it over to the bed, placing their mugs on the windowsill where Florrie could easily reach hers from where she knelt against the bed’s footboard, looking up at the sky.
‘Here,’ he said, placing something else on the windowsill between their mugs. A tealight candle. He kept the lighter in his hand.
‘If I light this, do you promise not to get into any bother with the flames? Can I trust you?’
‘I promise,’ she said, innocent like a girl scout. ‘No more accidents for me.’
He lit the wick and they watched it crackle and spark for a moment.
‘Would this count as an offering to Ulnar?’ he asked.
‘Ullr,’ she corrected. ‘Ulnar’s the bit of my hand that got hurt, isn’t it?’
‘Jeezo, I think it is. He really won’t send me any snow now, will he, for getting his name wrong?’
‘Let’s hope he wasn’t paying attention.’ She positioned her mouth at the lip of the coffee mug and tilted it with her fingertips, managing to take a drink. ‘I’m getting better at this.’
He swigged his coffee and watched her, a warm satisfaction growing within him.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t have a local dignitary switching the lights on,’ Florrie went on. ‘Someone from the Regional Authority maybe?’
‘You’re joking, none of them actually live around here.’
‘They don’t?’
‘It’s easier to make unpopular decisions if you’re not close enough for people to egg your car in your driveway, I guess?’
‘Haven’t you met the guy who commissioned me? Mr Banks?’
‘Never. I get plenty letters from his office, but he’s never been down here, at least not in my time.’
But Florrie was distracted by something outside. ‘What are those lights?’ she asked. ‘Down there.’
He joined her in front of the glass just in time to catch the yellow and red flashes.
‘That is Fan-Dabi-Snowzi, the gritter and snowplough truck. They must be expecting a hard frost tonight if they’re out spreading salt on the roads at this time.’
‘Fan dabby… what?’
He sat back against his end of the bed and stretched out his legs. ‘We don’t have enough time for me to explain the Krankies to you.’
‘What are they?’
‘Um, sort of… Scottish… cultural ambassadors?’
‘Right,’ she said, smiling and leaning on the windowsill for another sip of coffee. The steam from her mug cast a halo of silvery condensation on the glass.