This bumptious effusiveness puzzled Moray. Was there a streak of the woman in Walter or did he, as a man consistently rebuffed by his fellows, so lack male companionship that he fastened on to the first newcomer who came along? Perhaps the prestige of a future doctor attracted him, for he was patently a snob. Or it might be that through vanity he was simply bent on demonstrating his own importance to someone new to the town. With a shrug, Moray gave up.
Mary and her brother had been ready for some time and now they set out, Walter leading the party along the Esplanade towards the pier, obviously determined to do things in style. At the steamer booking office he demanded first-class return tickets, adding casually:
“Three and a half: the boy is under age.”
The booking clerk turned a practised eye on Willie.
“Four full fares,” he said.
“I believe I asked for three and a half.”
“Four,” said the clerk in a tired voice.
An argument then ensued, brief yet fierce on Walter’s side, ending when Willie, interrogated by the clerk, truthfully gave his age, thus disqualifying himself from the reduced rate. Not a good start, thought Moray, ironically observing Walter slap down the extra coins with an injured air.
The little red-funnelled paddle-boat came spanking down river and alongside the pier. She was the Lucy Ashton. Walter, somewhat recovered, explained to Moray that all the North British boats were named after characters in Scott’s novels, but he seemed disappointed that they were not to have the Queen Alexandra, the new two-funnelled Caledonian turbine; its absence seemed a slight impairment of his prestige.
The gangway was skilfully run out, they went on board, and, looking around, he selected seats in the stern. Then the paddles churned and they were off, across the sparkling estuary and out towards the open firth.
“Delightful, is it not?” Walter murmured, settling back. Things were going better now.
But it was fresh upon the water and before long it became apparent that the situation he had chosen was exposed.
“Don’t you think it’s a little breezy on this side, dear?” Mary ventured, after several minutes. Head inclined to the wind, she was holding on to her hat.
“Not a bit of it,” Walter answered curtly. “I want to show Dr Moray all our local points of interest. This gives us an uninterrupted view.”
The view—undoubtedly unimpaired, since most of the other passengers were in the lee of the cabin—was quite lovely, perhaps the most beautiful in all the Western Highlands. But Walter, though complacently owning its charm with all the proprietorship of a cicerone, was more concerned with the commercial import of the towns which fringed the shore.
“That’s Scourie over there.” He pointed. “A thriving community. They put in a new gasholder last year. Twenty thousand cubic feet capacity. There’s progress for you. And they have a new sewage disposal project up before the town council. My father knows the Provost. And across on the other side is Port Doran. Can you make out the municipal buildings behind that steeple . . . ?”
They were all steadily getting colder. Even Willie had turned blue, and had departed, muttering that he was going to look at the engines. But Walter went remorselessly on. What a goddam bore, thought Moray, with his legs stretched out and hands in his pockets. Scarcely listening now, he was watching Mary who, though very silent, occasionally put in a dutiful word of support. He saw that her entire nature changed in the presence of her fiancé. Her sparkle died, all the fun went out of her, she became reserved, sealed up, conscientiously obedient, like a good pupil in the presence of her teacher. She’ll have a hell of a life with that fellow when they’re married, he reflected absently—the wind and Walter’s monologue were making him drowsy.
At last they threaded the Kyles, swung into Gairsay Bay, and manoeuvred to the pier. Willie, after a search, was retrieved from the warmth of the engine-room and they went ashore.
“This is nice,” breathed Mary, with relief.
The town, a popular resort, had an attractive and prosperous air: a circle of good shops on the front, the hotels mounting up on the wooded hill behind, moorland and mountain beyond. “And now for lunch,” Walter exclaimed, in the manner of one who has something up his sleeve.
“Oh, yes,” Mary said cheerfully. “Let’s go to Lang’s. There it is, quite handy.” She indicated a modest but promising-looking restaurant across the road.
“My dear,” Walter said, “I wouldn’t dream of taking Dr Moray to Lang’s. Or you either, for that matter.”
“We always go there when we come with Father,” Willie remarked dourly. “They have rare hot mutton pies. And Comrie’s lemonade.”
“Yes, let’s, Walter dear.”
He stilled her with a raised, gloved hand and calmly produced his pièce de résistance of the day.
“We are going to lunch at the Grand.”
“Oh, no, Walter. Not the Grand. It’s so . . . so snobby . . . and expens . . .”.
Walter threw an intimate, confidential smile at Moray, as though to say, These women!
“It’s the best,” he murmured. “I have reserved a table in advance from my father’s office.”
They began to climb the hill towards the Grand, which towered majestically, high above them. The footpath was long, through woods carpeted with bluebells, and steep, in parts excessively so. Occasionally between the trees they caught sight of expensive cars flashing upwards on the main driveway. Moray perceived that the ascent, which Stoddart led like a deerstalker, was tiring Mary. To allow her to rest he stopped and picked a little bunch of bluebells which he tied with a twist of dried grass, and handed to her.
“Exactly the colour of your dress.” He smiled.
At last they reached the summit and Walter, sweating, breathing heavily, brought them on to the broad terrace of the hotel where a number of guests were seated in the sunshine. An immediate silence fell as the little party appeared, some curious stares were turned towards it, and someone laughed. The main entrance was on the opposite side of the hotel and Walter had some difficulty in finding the terrace door. But finally, after some wandering, they were in the rich, marble-pillared foyer and Stoddart, having asked directions from an imposing figure in a gold-braided uniform, led the way to the restaurant, a huge, overpowering affair done in white and gold with enormous crystal chandeliers and a rich red pile carpet.
It was absurdly early, only just gone twelve o’clock, and although the waiters were on duty, gathered in a group round the head waiter’s desk talking amongst themselves, no one else was in the room.
“Yes, sir?”
The head waiter, a stout, red-faced man in striped trousers, white waistcoat and cutaway, detached himself and came dubiously forward.
“Lunch for three, and a boy,” Stoddart said.
“This way, please.”
His hooded eye had taken them in at a glance: he appeared to lead them off to a distant alcove in the rear, when Walter said pompously:
“I want a table by the window. I have a reservation in the name of the town clerk of Ardfillan.”
The major domo hesitated: he smells a tip, thought Moray satirically, and how wrong he is!
“By the window did you say, sir?”
“That table over there.”