500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(25)
“So, listen, if you join the Kirrinfief Facebook you can find out everything that’s going on. There’s a barn dance coming up, if you’re not married—are you married? Cormac didn’t think so, said there was only one person coming, and then Mrs. Ochil said, ‘Well, maybe she’s just trying to take a break from her man for a wee bit—you know men, can hardly blame her, and maybe he’s got one of them big jobs down in London or you know.’ I know you’re from London and it’s all lesbians there too I suppose . . . Can I still call them lesbians? My son says I get it wrong all the time . . .”
Her face looked worried, as Lissa stood like a stone, completely unresponsive.
“. . . um,” said the woman, running out of steam. She met a lot of tourists in the summertime, but they were usually more than happy to chat, to ask about walking trails and Highland cows, and to buy bags of shortbread and tablet and big sandwiches overspilling with coleslaw. She wasn’t used to this. London, she supposed gloomily. She’d been once on a coach trip with her friend Agnes, and neither of them had thought very much of it, was her settled opinion.
Lissa tried not to panic—the woman was only trying to be friendly, she wasn’t some spy sent to track her down, the stupid voice in her head had to shut up.
“Um . . .” Lissa stared, bright red, at the food behind the counter.
A young laborer, unshaven and ready for the day in heavy work boots, came in with a cheery grin, shouted, “Hi, Deirds,” and ordered five steak bridies, two macaroni pies, and four cheese scones, and Deirds asked him did he lose a bet, and he replied yes, indeed he did, but it could have been worse, it being the last thing he had asked for. When her attention turned to Lissa again she nervously asked for a cheese scone and was there the possibility of a coffee? Deirdre said of course and simply made her a Nescafé rather than asking her which of ninety-five different varieties she’d like to try and charged her 80 pence for the privilege and handed her a scorching plastic cup, and Lissa muttered her thanks and got out of there as soon as possible.
“That’s the new girl?” said the laborer, Teddy. “She’s pretty.”
“Pretty rude,” sniffed Deirdre. “Honestly. Why English people can’t give you the time of day is beyond me.”
“It’s because they’re evil oppressors,” said Teddy, who had grown up in a staunchly independent family and was very clear as to what he thought of the visiting influx, which was why he kept working the land rather than somewhere nice and cozy inside in a tourist operation.
“Aye, she’s just never been made welcome afore,” said Deirdre. “When Agnes and I were in yon London . . .”
Teddy was only twenty-two, but he was no stranger to Deirdre’s rant about how much she disliked yon London, and although he never minded to go there himself—evil oppressor central—he knew he’d better get out to the lower field before Lennox gave him a kick up the arse. He was a great boss, Lennox, didn’t interfere as long as the work was done, but you’d do no good getting on his wrong side during lambing season, anyone knew that, so he bade Deirdre good morning and headed on his way, observing the strange English girl sitting in her car, looking as miserable as someone attempting to eat a warm cheese scone fresh out of the oven could possibly look, as word was already spreading about the village about her snotty ways, and if she hadn’t been an evil oppressor, Teddy would have felt sorry for her.
LISSA FINALLY FIGURED out which was the Collins farm by asking another passerby who, madly, also immediately knew who she was and was eager to engage her in conversation, and asked if she wanted to join the village choir. She was pretty sure that wasn’t in Cormac MacPherson’s notes; he hadn’t mentioned that she’d be expected to have a full personal conversation with literally everybody she met and not much guidance about how to get around. The fact that she wouldn’t have gotten all the necessary relevant information about how to get around by cheerfully talking to everyone she met had simply never occurred to Cormac; how else did people live?
The farm was small, a few cows and chickens mostly, the farmyard a churn of mud and the track leading up to it single lane and full of potholes. It did, however, crest a vast hill, and she suddenly caught a glimpse of the valley and the village down below, beneath the shadows of the crags, a straight train line on one side and the great expanse of Loch Ness on the other. She stared at it for a long while. It must be so strange to grow up here. All this space, all this fresh air. Did they like it? She supposed they must. How strange.
Blinking, she stepped out of the car, up to her ankles in mud.
“Hello?” she shouted out. The farmhouse itself was quiet, old gray stone and empty-looking windows. It was perched high up in the hills and the cold wind whistled through her, completely unprotected above the low stone walls, but the view was utterly breathtaking. She felt as if she were in the middle of a living, breathing painting in a million shades of green.
For the first time in a while she wasn’t constantly aware of whether her heart was jumping in her chest, wasn’t worried about loud noises or someone creeping up on her. This vast canvas spread in front of her. This landscape with birds rising from scattered seed and tiny bounding spots of fluff on distant hillsides, mirroring the little clouds scudding quickly past in the cold bright blue sky. Lissa shut her eyes and took a deep breath.