Where Have All the Boys Gone?(45)

“Thank goodness there isn’t an internet café,” she growled. “He’d have got a mouthful from me. And he still will. I’m going to make him pay. Well, he’s already going to pay—saddled for life with that bitch’s brats.”

Katie winced, but let it go by. OK, Clara was as daft as a headful of melon, but she wasn’t evil . . . just thoughtless, careless . . . and other family traits. She sighed to herself.

“Oh sweetie.” She patted Louise. “You were doing so well.”

“No I wasn’t,” howled Louise. “How? How can I have a job, and a life, and years under my belt, and a credit card and still let a man make me feel like this? HOW?”

“Because you’re human,” said Katie. “Because you’re a person. And a decent person, not a psycho or something.”

“No, just a slut,” said Louise.

“Could we stop using that word? I wish everyone would stop using that word.”

“But . . .”

And it came out. After walking for miles in search of a signal, and feeling incredibly tired, she’d come across a friendly and extremely helpful gamekeeper chappie, and they’d talked for a bit and he’d been very sympathetic and invited her back for a swig of whisky in his office and to cut matters short . . .

“I shagged a complete stranger in a bothy!” howled Louise, dribbling all over the damp nylon sheets. “And I was on the road back!”

“You still are,” said Katie soothingly. “I promise, Louise.”

“I didn’t even know what a bothy was!”

“There there” said Katie.

Louise put her head in her hands. “Why? Why would I go back to doing that? Why?”

Katie gave her a huge hug. “Was he attractive?”

“He was all right,” said Louise in a small voice.

“Yeah?”

“OK, gorgeous. Really muscly and everything.”

“And we’re going to forget all about it,” said Katie.

Louise’s tears had slightly dried up. “Well, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was a desperate gesture in a terrible time.”

Louise rubbed her eyes. “And bothies are very cosy places really. God, I’m so tired. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how knackered you feel when you’ve had a good cry?”

She settled herself down onto the sheets. “Can I sleep here tonight again?”

Katie looked at her warily.

“I’ve had such a terrible, terrible day . . . well, mostly terrible beyond belief . . .”

She drifted off almost immediately, while Katie lay there, on another lonely vigil, awake in a quiet attic in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out her own way home.





Chapter Eleven


Katie must have fallen asleep eventually, because the first thing she knew, she was being woken by yelling from downstairs, which sounded oddly masculine, but wasn’t. She sat up, rubbing her head. Louise was nowhere to be seen.

There was certainly a commotion occurring. Blearily, she jumped in and out of the shower and threw on some old clothes. She would finish packing after breakfast, she really was absolutely starving, one piece or no pieces. Perhaps if she could distract Mrs. McClockerty she could do a quick dive for the Tupperware box of cornflakes and eat them dry.

There would be no avoiding Mrs. McClockerty, however, as she was to be found at the bottom of the stairs, the source of all the noise. She was bellowing loudly into an old-fashioned green rotary dial telephone, presumably to someone who was entirely deaf.

“And if they think they can just walk in here with their little caddie wheel things and start demanding ensuite bathrooms thank you very much! There hasnae been an ensuite bathroom in Water Lane in my lifetime and we won’t be changing the noo!”

Katie wandered into the dining room, rubbing her ears. In the corner was Louise, who was stuffing her face and at the same time beckoning Katie over furiously.

“Quick, she’s out,” whispered Louise, slathering marmalade on toast. “Eat. EAT!”

“What’s going on?” asked Katie, accepting the toast immediately and pouring herself a cup of tea.

“It’s all kicked off!” said Louise. “You’re famous! Look!”

She thrust over a slightly becrumbed newspaper. Emblazoned across the front of it in huge type was the headline: SAVE OUR TOWN!

Katie grabbed it. Iain had been as good as his word. Every single thing was in there—the threat to the woods, the need for a campaign, the imminent destruction of the local way of life “beloved for centuries.” There were lots of references to the idea that almost all the golfers would be English, to a level which Katie privately considered bordered on the racist. But, Katie was touched to see, there was also a reference to how the whole town would stand behind Harry Barr, as he fought to win the campaign. She was mentioned as the girl who had discovered the whole thing, as if she were a secret spy on a top-secret mission. He’d made it all look terribly exciting.

“Mrs. McClockerty’s been on the phone all morning,” said Louise. “I think we should store some of this toast in our pockets for later. There’s four pieces out.”

“You’re very perky,” said Katie suspiciously.

“Can’t talk. Eating.”