unaccompanied, and somebody had recited a work by Burns. It’s all very
tartan
, thought Jessica, but not very authentic. Since the locals were clearly not performing for the benefit of tourists she could only imagine that their culture had ossified into self-parody under the influence of the media and a plethora of communication. The most remote and isolated savage, having once seen himself on telly, would find his attitudes to himself and his rites subtly altered, and these people must have been constantly bombarded by reflections and images of Caledonian mores and behaviour.
Sad
, thought Jessica. Hoots mon and Haggis.
The door opened, several more people entered, including Finlay carrying a flute. The drummer put down his sticks, and someone turned the record player back on. The lights were lowered. The door opened again and someone who looked like Finlay’s sister-in-law slid in along the wall.
‘Either of you two ladies care to dance?’ asked the professor of Jessica and Anita. They declined: Jessica on the grounds that her feet were hurting, and Anita because she was already too hot. ‘Let me know when you want to go,’ he said, ‘and I’ll run you back in the Jag.’ He shuffled away in time to the music.
‘I’m ready for bed,’ said Anita. ‘I don’t want to wait. Shall we walk back?’ It was dark outside: the moon hidden in cloud. Jessica tripped against a low wall.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she said of the cool air. ‘Let’s sit here a moment until we get used to the dark.’
The door opened and the professor emerged flanked by two girls. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘I’ve just got to have a pee.’ He moved a foot or so from his companions and urinated over the wall on which Anita and Jessica were sitting. Perhaps he hadn’t seen them there. Jessica gave him the benefit of the doubt.
A hush followed the racket as the professor’s Jag rumbled away along the sea road. All sound had ceased in the village hall behind them. Then there came the strains of a flute: a wild melody, sweet and sorrowful and piercing – and so unfamiliar, thought Jessica, that it could seldom have been heard on the earth before. They waited until it had stopped and the moon had come out from the clouds before they started home, not speaking.
Jessica looked out to sea, and in the light from the suddenly soaring moon she saw dark shapes at the water’s edge; so many she thought she must be seeing things. ‘Seals,’ she said. ‘Look. There are hundreds of them out there . . .’ but when Anita looked they had gone.
Jon, walking soundlessly behind them on cushioned soles, saw nothing but the white drift of Jessica’s cashmere scarf. It covered her brown hair and swathed her pale neck, guiding him through the shadows.
‘Do you suppose this place is haunted?’ asked Anita the next morning. She had skipped breakfast because her waistband was feeling tight and had joined the others for elevenses. ‘I heard noises in the night.’
‘People go to the bathroom in the night,’ said Ronald.
‘I know that,’ said Anita rather shortly. ‘They weren’t those sort of noises.’
Jessica, too, had heard noises in the night: half awake she thought she had heard the handle of her bedroom door being slowly turned, but as she had always locked her bedroom door when alone – ever since her second husband had returned, six months after the divorce, to pick up his pyjamas – she had gone back to sleep. ‘What sort of noises?’ she asked.
‘Sort of people coming and going,’ said Anita. ‘A lot of people.’
‘A lot of people come and go in an inn,’ said Ronald.
‘Not usually at three and four in the morning,’ said Anita, getting cross. ‘And I could hear people talking, only I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’
‘Did you listen?’ asked Ronald.
‘No,’ snapped Anita. He sounded as though he thought she was an eavesdropper. ‘I just heard.’
Ronald ate a double triangle of shortbread and
tartan
, thought Jessica, but not very authentic. Since the locals were clearly not performing for the benefit of tourists she could only imagine that their culture had ossified into self-parody under the influence of the media and a plethora of communication. The most remote and isolated savage, having once seen himself on telly, would find his attitudes to himself and his rites subtly altered, and these people must have been constantly bombarded by reflections and images of Caledonian mores and behaviour.
Sad
, thought Jessica. Hoots mon and Haggis.
The door opened, several more people entered, including Finlay carrying a flute. The drummer put down his sticks, and someone turned the record player back on. The lights were lowered. The door opened again and someone who looked like Finlay’s sister-in-law slid in along the wall.
‘Either of you two ladies care to dance?’ asked the professor of Jessica and Anita. They declined: Jessica on the grounds that her feet were hurting, and Anita because she was already too hot. ‘Let me know when you want to go,’ he said, ‘and I’ll run you back in the Jag.’ He shuffled away in time to the music.
‘I’m ready for bed,’ said Anita. ‘I don’t want to wait. Shall we walk back?’ It was dark outside: the moon hidden in cloud. Jessica tripped against a low wall.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she said of the cool air. ‘Let’s sit here a moment until we get used to the dark.’
The door opened and the professor emerged flanked by two girls. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘I’ve just got to have a pee.’ He moved a foot or so from his companions and urinated over the wall on which Anita and Jessica were sitting. Perhaps he hadn’t seen them there. Jessica gave him the benefit of the doubt.
A hush followed the racket as the professor’s Jag rumbled away along the sea road. All sound had ceased in the village hall behind them. Then there came the strains of a flute: a wild melody, sweet and sorrowful and piercing – and so unfamiliar, thought Jessica, that it could seldom have been heard on the earth before. They waited until it had stopped and the moon had come out from the clouds before they started home, not speaking.
Jessica looked out to sea, and in the light from the suddenly soaring moon she saw dark shapes at the water’s edge; so many she thought she must be seeing things. ‘Seals,’ she said. ‘Look. There are hundreds of them out there . . .’ but when Anita looked they had gone.
Jon, walking soundlessly behind them on cushioned soles, saw nothing but the white drift of Jessica’s cashmere scarf. It covered her brown hair and swathed her pale neck, guiding him through the shadows.
‘Do you suppose this place is haunted?’ asked Anita the next morning. She had skipped breakfast because her waistband was feeling tight and had joined the others for elevenses. ‘I heard noises in the night.’
‘People go to the bathroom in the night,’ said Ronald.
‘I know that,’ said Anita rather shortly. ‘They weren’t those sort of noises.’
Jessica, too, had heard noises in the night: half awake she thought she had heard the handle of her bedroom door being slowly turned, but as she had always locked her bedroom door when alone – ever since her second husband had returned, six months after the divorce, to pick up his pyjamas – she had gone back to sleep. ‘What sort of noises?’ she asked.
‘Sort of people coming and going,’ said Anita. ‘A lot of people.’
‘A lot of people come and go in an inn,’ said Ronald.
‘Not usually at three and four in the morning,’ said Anita, getting cross. ‘And I could hear people talking, only I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’
‘Did you listen?’ asked Ronald.
‘No,’ snapped Anita. He sounded as though he thought she was an eavesdropper. ‘I just heard.’
Ronald ate a double triangle of shortbread and
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