But when we stopped in at Saltgreens half an hour later, Nancy Fortune was not in her room.
One of the nursing staff, bustling past, paused long enough to explain. "Oh, she took herself off home, for the weekend.
Said she wasn't too keen on the crowds, and with the ceilidh tonight there was bound to be noise. And anyway, she wanted to collect some things from her cottage, like."
"Oh, aye?" David's face settled into a resigned expression. "Took the car, did she? The white car from the car park of the Ship?"
"Aye, that's right. Coughing a bit, it was, but she reckoned it would run all right once it got going." The nurse smiled broadly. "She's wonderfully thrawn, your mother, isn't she?"
I had to look that one up. My dog-eared dictionary informed me that a "thrawn" person was one who delighted in being difficult and obstinate, and David agreed that the word was an apt summing up of his mother's disposition. "You'll want to put a star beside that word," he told me, stabbing the page with a finger. "It's a good one for you to learn."
"And why is that?"
He grinned. "Because you'll probably be hearing it a lot from me, this summer. My mother's not the only woman I ken who's wonderfully thrawn."
Peter took the news less lightly. He stayed the nurse with one hand on her arm, his forehead creased in anxious lines. "But surely . .. that is, will she be all right up there, do you think? Alone?"
"Och, she'll be fine." The nurse smiled again, confident. "There's a telephone at her cottage, isn't there? And she's got her medication. It'll do her a world of good, getting away for a wee while—she's not one to sit watching the television all day."
I did my best not to look smug as the three of us came out of Saltgreens and stood blinking in the sunlight. Peter's eyes adjusted first, and settled on the brilliant white walls of the Ship Hotel.
"I say," he said, forgetting his concern for David's mother, "does anyone fancy a drink?"
I wouldn't have minded a half-pint myself, but a glance at my watch convinced me I didn't have time. "If I want to be ready for the ceilidh tonight, I really ought to head back
I now. I still need to bathe and wash my hair, and I thought I might ring my sister, since it's Saturday—see how she's getting on."
"Ah yes, your sister Alison," said Peter, with an understanding nod. He had the most amazing faculty for names, I thought.
"That's right. But you two go ahead and—"
"She's of an age with Fabia, as I recall." Peter looked to me for confirmation. "Yes? Oh, dear. Very brave of you, letting her live in your flat."
"You haven't met Alison. She thinks cleaning is jolly good fun. I doubt I'll recognize my flat when I get back to it."
And then suddenly the very idea of getting back to my flat seemed bleak and unappealing, and I didn't want to think about it, and with a mumbled parting word I turned and started back along the harbor road.
*-*-*-*-*
"Oh," said my sister, "I nearly forgot. Howard rang."
"Howard?"
"From the museum. He said you'd know who he was."
"Oh right, Howard." My old friend and colleague, the pottery expert—the one who'd given me his opinion on our first finds here. "What did he want?"
"Just your number in Scotland, He said you gave it to him once but he's mislaid the paper it was written on, and could I give it him again?"
"So did you?"
"Heavens, no." Alison's tone was crisply practical. "He might have been a psychopath. One never knows, these days. No, I took his number instead, and promised to pass it on. Have you a pencil handy?"
I cradled the handset against my shoulder and took the number down. "Got it. Thanks. Is there anything else? No? Because I really ought to go and run my bath ..."
"Got a hot date, tonight?"
"Yes I do, actually."
She paused. "Not with Adrian?"
"No."
"Good. With who, then?"
"With whom."
"Don't dodge the question."
"A dark handsome Scotsman," I said, "in a kilt."
Again the pause. "You are joking?"
"I'm not. He's taking me to a ceilidh."
"A what?"
"A ceilidh. It's a dance."
"Yes, I know what it is," said Alison. "I'm just surprised you're going to one. You don't dance."
"I do, too."
"Well, you'd best have someone taking photographs," was her advice, "or else I won't believe it. And while you're at it, you might take a picture of your mystery man in the kilt."
"Don't you believe in him, either?"
"Of course. But I do have a thing about men wearing kilts," my sister admitted. She sighed. "I saw Braveheart five times."
I laughed and rang off, thought for a moment, then dialed Howard's number. He was out. Leaving the number for Rosehill on his answerphone, I put the receiver down again and, having done my duty by everyone, went up to have my bath.
*-*-*-*-*
The ceilidh was enormous fun. At least, that was my overall impression ... I had a vague awareness of flushed faces and riotous laughter and wild, reeling music played so loudly that it rumbled in my breast like thunder. I danced until I couldn't breathe, until my head felt light and the room rolled and my legs could no longer support me.