“Sorry, sir. That table is specially reserved for Major Lindsay of Lochshiel and his party of young English gentlemen.”
“The one next to it then.”
“That is Mr Menzies’ table, sir. A resident. Still, as he rarely comes in before one fifteen, and you’ll doubtless have finished by then. . . . If you care to have it . . . ?”
They were seated at Mr Menzies’ table. The menu was handed to Walter. It was in Anglicised French.
“Potage à la Reine Alexandra,” he began, reading it through to them, slowly, remarking complacently, in conclusion:
“Nothing like French cooking. And five courses too.”
While they sat in solitary state the meal was served, rapidly, and with veiled insolence. It was atrocious, a typical Grand Hotel luncheon, but below the usual standard. First came a thick yellowish soup composed apparently of flour and tepid water; next, a bony fragment of fish which had probably travelled from Aberdeen to Gairsay by the long way through Billingsgate, a fact only partially concealed by a coating of glutinous pink sauce.
“It’s not fresh, Mary,” Willie whispered, leaning towards her.
“Hush, dear,” she murmured, struggling with the bones, sitting very straight, her eyes on her plate. Moray saw that under her apparent calm she was suffering acutely. For himself, he did not, in his own phrase, care a tinker’s curse—he was not personally involved—but strangely it worried him to see her hurt. He tried to think of something light and gay that would cheer her but it would not come to him. Across the table Walter was now chewing his way through the next course, a slab of stringy mutton served with tinned peas and potatoes which cut and tasted like soap.
The sweet was a chalky blancmange accompanied by tough prunes. The savoury, which followed swiftly, for now they were really being rushed, took the shape of a stiff, spectral sardine, emitting a kind of bluish radiance, and impaled on a strip of desiccated toast. Then, though it was not yet one o’clock and no other guests had as yet appeared, the bill was brought.
If Stoddart had paid this immediately and they had departed forthwith all would have been well. But by this time Walter, through his unfeeling hide, had become conscious of a sense of slight, scarcely to be tolerated by the son of the Ardfillan town clerk. Besides, he had an actuarial mind. He withdrew one of the pencils with which his waistcoat was invariably armed, and began to make calculations on the bill. As he did so a tall, rakish-looking, weatherbeaten man, grey-haired, with a clipped moustache, wearing a faded Black Watch kilt, strolled in from the bar. He was followed by three young men in rough tweeds who had all, Moray immediately perceived, had more than a few drinks. As they took possession of the adjoining table they were noisily discussing how they had fished a beat on the River Gair—apparently the property of the man in the kilt. One of the three, a flashy-looking article, with blond hair and a slack mouth, was rather less than sober, and as he sat down his eye fell on Mary. Turning, he lolled over the back of his chair, began ogling her while the waiter served their first course, then, with a nudge and a wink, diverted the attention of his companions.
“There’s a nice little Scotch trout, Lindsay. Better than anything you landed this morning.”
There was a general laugh as the other two turned to stare at Mary.
“Come now, get on with your soup,” said Lindsay.
“Oh, hang the soup. Let’s have the little lady over to our table. She doesn’t seem too happy with her Scotch uncle. What do you say, chaps? Shall I do the needful?”
He looked at the others for confirmation and encouragement.
“You’ll never chance it, Harris,” grinned one of his friends.
“What do you bet?” He pushed back his chair and got up.
Walter, disturbed at his mathematics, had been nervously aware of them from the moment they entered the room. Now, extremely grey about the gills, he averted his head.
“Take no notice,” he muttered. “They won’t let him come over.”
But Harris was already advancing and with an exaggerated bow he leant over Mary, took possession of her hand.
“Pardon me, my dear. May we have the pleasure of your company?”
Moray saw her shrink back. She had at first blushed deeply but now all the colour had drained from her face. Her lips were colourless and quivering. She looked pleadingly at Walter. Willie too was staring at Stoddart with wide, frightened, yet indignant eyes.
“Sir,” Walter stammered, swallowing with difficulty, “are you aware you are addressing my fiancée? This is an imposition. I shall be obliged to summon the manager.”
“Quiet, Uncle. We’re not interested in you. Come along, dearie.” He tried to draw her to her feet. “We’ll give you a ripping time.”
“Please go,” Mary said in a small, pained voice.
Something in the tone struck home. He hesitated, then with a grimace released her hand.
“No accounting for tastes.” He shrugged. “Well, if I can’t have you, I’ll take a lee-itle souvenir.” He picked up Mary’s flowers and, pressing them affectedly to his lips, wavered back to his place.
There was a hollow silence. Everyone seemed to be looking at Walter. In particular the man in the weather-stained kilt was observing him with a cruelly satiric twist of his lip. Walter, indeed, was pitifully agitated. Forgetting his intention to query the bill, he fumbled in his pocket-book, hurriedly threw down some notes, and rose like a ruffled hen.
“We are leaving now, Mary.”
Moray got up. There was nothing heroic in his nature, he had no strong leanings towards mortal combat, but be was angry—most of all perhaps at his own wasted day. And a sudden nervous impulse, almost predestined, sent him over to the other table, down at Harris, who did not seem greatly to relish his appearance.
“Weren’t you told to get on with your soup? It’s a little late now. But let me help you.”
Taking him by the back of the neck, Moray pushed him forward, ground his face hard once, twice, three times into the plate of soup. It was the thick soup, the Potage à la Reine Alexandra, which in the interim had nicely set, so that Harris came up for breath dripping with yellowish glue. Dead silence from the others while, with a swimming motion, he groped for his napkin. Moray picked up the bunch of bluebells, gave them back to Mary, waited a minute with a fast beating heart, then as nothing seemed to happen, except that now the man in the kilt was smiling, he followed the others from the restaurant. Outside, on the steps, Willie was waiting for him. The boy wrung his hand fervently again and again.
“Well done, Davie. Oh, man, I like ye fine.”
“There was no need for you to interfere,” Walter broke out, as they started down through the woods. “We were completely within our rights. As if decent people couldn’t have a meal in peace. I know about that Lindsay—a kailyard laird—not a fish or a bird on his property, he’ll rent to the lowest cockneys from London, but I’ll . . . I’ll report the matter . . . to the authorities. I won’t let it pass, it’s a public scandal.” He continued in this strain until they reached the pier, dwelling largely on the rights of the individual and the dignity of man, and concluding with a final vindictive burst. “I shall certainly put the entire affair before my father.”
“And what will he do?” Willie said. “Turn off your gas?”
The return journey was sad and silent. It had started to drizzle and they sat in the saloon. Nursing his injuries, Walter had at last ceased his monologue, while Mary, who gazed fixedly ahead, uttered scarcely a word. Willie had taken Moray away to show him the engines.
At Ardfillan, Walter, with a forgiving air, offered his arm to Mary. They walked to the bakery and into the yard, where Moray started up his bike.