Where Have All the Boys Gone? (6 page)

‘It is a hotel!’ said Katie.

‘It’s a boarding house,’ said Mrs McClockerty, as if Katie had sworn at her. The girls waited for further elucidation as to what the difference was, but none was forthcoming. The bosom swayed towards the door and vanished into the endless bowels of the house.

‘Can I hide under the seat of the car while you’re at work?’ asked Louise desperately.

‘No! You have to go explore.’

There was a pause. ‘Can I have the umbrella?’ asked Louise.

‘I forgot it,’ said Katie in a very quiet voice.

‘You forgot an umbrella when coming to the Highlands of Scotland?’ said Louise in an even quieter voice.

‘Yes,’ said Katie.

Louise sat very still for a minute. Then she stood up, slowly. ‘I will see you,’ she announced, ‘at 6 p.m.’ Then she picked up her coat, still wet from the night before, and, with a great sense of purpose and wounded pride, walked out of the big old-fashioned door. Katie watched
her go for a moment, feeling guilty, then feeling annoyed that she spent so much of her life feeling guilty.

Mrs McClockerty poked her head around the door and looked pointedly at the brass clock on the wall. It was 8.40. Katie jumped up, guiltily.

Katie hadn’t known what to expect of the town – she hadn’t seen much of it from the tiny railway station. But on first impressions, Katie felt happier despite herself. The rain was easing off, and there was even a hint of sun in the air, trying hard to make itself felt behind a watery cloud. The town was tiny, built around a little harbour. The houses were brightly painted and picture-postcard cosy. The town looked like it should be hosting a perky children’s television series, and, although the streets were deserted, Katie could imagine it thronged in the summer. The roads were narrow and cobbled, and a tiny church was perched on one of the hills above. The directions to the Forestry Commission indicated it was out of town, though, and so Katie reluctantly set off in the opposite direction, following the badly-faxed map.

The rain did stop, but the Punto was still having some trouble navigating the muddy roads through the thick woods. It was the first time Katie had ever driven somewhere where she could see the point of those ridiculous Land-Rover thingies, other than to transport skinny blonde women and their single children to the lycée whilst squashing
cyclists in the London rush hour. Olivia, who usually cycled to work of course, always suggested that they use the bull-bars on the front of their vehicles to tie little posies of flowers to commemorate all the cyclists and pedestrians they’d killed that week whilst being too far off the ground to notice anyone and too busy doing their make-up to care.

Katie wondered how things were going to go with this Harry character. The best thing, she supposed, would be if nobody mentioned their previous encounter. After all, he had said she could have had the job if she wanted, hadn’t he? Even if grudgingly so? Maybe he wouldn’t recognise her? Surely he’d think all London girls looked the same anyway? Nervously, she smoothed down her plain black sweater and burgundy skirt. It would be fine. She would do the job and get home. Breathe fresh air. Eat…well, kippers and things, she supposed. She quickly put to the back of her mind how unhappy he would be when he found out he was paying consultancy rates rather than £24k a year.

Suddenly, she reached a clearing. As if out of nowhere, a building appeared amongst the trees. It consisted of a wood frame in a peculiar rhombus shape. The walls were sheer glass, rising diagonally outwards from the grassy forest floor. It looked exactly like what it was: the office of the forest. It was beautiful.

Katie got out of the now mud-encrusted car and took a deep breath. She could see two shadowy figures inside – presumably they could see her a lot better from the inside out. She squinted at the glass, trying to work out where the door was. She had a vision of herself walking straight into a wall and breaking her nose. Maybe she’d get sick leave and have to go straight home. And they’d give her a nose job on the NHS.

She spied the door and walked through it.

‘Hello?’ she said tentatively. There was no answer. She could hear voices, and stepped through the wood-panelled foyer.

‘Hello?’

Inside the large clean open-plan room, with a picture perfect view, two men were poring over a single newspaper.

‘Hello?’

‘PRICKWOBBLING DICKO!’ shouted one of the men suddenly. Katie recognised Harry’s voice immediately.

The other man was heavier set and his voice much more accented. ‘God, if only we had someone to deal with the bloody papers, like.’

‘Ta dah!’ exclaimed Katie.

Both the men whirled around, startled.

‘Yes?’ said Harry, his dark eyes flashing at her in a cross ‘can I help you?’ kind of a way.

She walked towards him, smiling confidently. ‘Hello, I’m Katie Watson.’

Harry stopped and looked her up and down, clearly trying to place her from somewhere.

‘Olivia at LiWebber sent me,’ she said. ‘For a temporary assignment.’

‘Hello,’ said the older man. ‘I’m…’

‘I remember you!’ said Harry. ‘You’re the girl that came up on the train!’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I think I asked them to send me somebody else. I’m sure I did. Didn’t I?’

Katie decided to ignore this, and shook hands with the other man.

‘Derek Cameron,’ he said. ‘I’m the…’ he coughed suddenly. ‘Executive assistant. Which isn’t like a secretary or anything. Nothing like it.’

‘Derek, make us both a coffee, while I sort this out,’ said Harry loftily.

‘Sure thing, boss,’ replied Derek, disappearing into the back.

‘Well,’ said Harry, sitting back in his armchair and eyeing her carefully. ‘Uh, welcome.’

‘Thank you,’ said Katie. He stared at her again, then blinked. With his dark eyes and thick curly hair, Katie suddenly realised who he reminded her of – Gordon Brown. When he was younger and thinner. Much younger and much thinner, she thought. But there was the same brooding, distracted air and lack of speaking terms with combs.

‘Find your way up all right from the big smoke?’

‘Yes,’ said Katie, ‘although we’re not staying in a very nice place.’

‘Really?’ he leaned over his desk, suddenly looking interested. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

Katie described at length the horrid food, scary demeanour and general grimness of the Water Lane guest-house. About halfway through, realising that Harry was still staring at her, she remembered suddenly that there were only about nine people living in the town and he must know all of them.

‘…so, but, actually, apart from that, it’s lovely, great and we’re very happy,’ she finished in a gush.

Harry was quiet.

‘She’s your mum, isn’t she?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Gran?’

‘Aunt, actually. Brought me up after my mum died.’

Uncharitably, Katie’s first thought was, ‘well, that explains a lot’. Her second was, ‘how annoying, having that to throw in every time you wanted to win a conversation’.
Fortunately it was her third that actually came out of her mouth. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Harry. ‘And she couldn’t cook then either, to the best of my recollection.’

Katie stared at the floor, her face burning.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Harry finally. ‘I find it’s probably best to…buy your own sheets, stuff like that. There’s a woman in town gives you a discount if you tell her where you’re staying.’

‘Thanks,’ said Katie, thinking it best not to mention that the plans she and Louise had discussed that morning included moving out as soon as humanly possible, burning the place to the ground, then salting the land.

‘So, what’s my first assignment?’

Derek returned, bearing three cracked mugs bearing pictures of trees on the side. They said ‘Don’t commit TREEson, come see us this SEASON’.

These people need help, thought Katie.

‘The prickwobbling dicko,’ prompted Derek.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Harry. ‘Iain Kinross. Iain Kinross of the
West Highland Times.
Yes, yes. Iain Kinross.’

‘Our evil arch-nemesis,’ added Derek helpfully.

Harry brandished the paper and threw it down on the desk. ‘You have to sort him out.’

Katie picked up the paper.

‘He’s pursuing a vendetta against us,’ said Harry gravely. The headline read ‘Further Deciduous Cuts’. It meant nothing to Katie.

‘He writes that we’re killing all the trees.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘We start by weeding out the gay and disabled trees.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Derek.

‘No,’ said Katie, who’d come to this conclusion on her own.

‘Yes!’ said Harry indignantly. ‘Wages paid by me, both of you. Now, you –’ he pointed at Katie ‘– go into town. Introduce yourself to Kinross. Simper a bit, you know, do that girlie thing. Toss your hair a little.’

‘I will not,’ said Katie. ‘I’m not a horse.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Just tell him you’re new here and that you were kind of hoping he’d go easy on you until you’ve settled in.’

‘That’s not the kind of thing I’ve usually found works on journalists,’ said Katie. ‘Especially not evil ones.’

‘Well, what’s your great plan then, Miss Whoever-you-are?’

Katie didn’t know, but given the atmosphere of outright hostility, she was on Iain Kinross’s side pretty much already. ‘Let me go and talk to him,’ she said, trying to sound professional.

‘Exactly. Bit of the old eyelash-fluttering. See, Derek, I told you a lassie would help things around here.’

‘Of course, boss.’

‘They’re like Mr Burns and Smithers.’

Katie had run into Louise with comparative ease, given that there were only three streets in Fairlish, and only one person on any of them.

‘Great,’ said Louise. ‘I’m starving. Let’s cut our losses and run. We could be in Glasgow in five hours, and it rocks.’

‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,’ said Katie, looking around her. ‘Do you know, Starbucks would clean up around here.’

‘Who from? Mrs Miggin’s pie shop?’ Louise pointed to a little bakers-cum-teashop. It still had the original
round glass panes in its tiny windows, and was painted pink. It looked cosy and welcoming, with condensation fogging up the glass. ‘Why isn’t it that easy? They can take the high road, and we’ll take the low road, and we’ll be shopping at LK Bennett’s before them.’

The heavy bakery doors clanged as they walked in. The shop was hot, steamy and full of old men chattering away in a musical brogue. Everyone fell silent immediately. Katie and Louise were about the same height as most of them.

‘Do you sell coffee?’ Louise asked the friendly-looking red-haired chap behind the counter, which would have been fine if she hadn’t felt the need to over-enunciate in a very posh-sounding way while making the international signal for coffee by shaking imaginary beans in her hand, and looking a bit of a Gareth Hunt in the process.

Alongside the chap there was a tallish, angular young girl, with a sulky expression and a face that was quite possibly rather beautiful, if it were not crowned by a ridiculous pie-crust, olde-world elasticated bonnet and a murderous expression.

‘Aw, caawww-feee?’ she said, shaking her hand in the same stupid gesture Louise had used. ‘Ah dunno. Mr MacKenzie, dweez sell CAAWWW-FEEE?’

Mr MacKenzie looked at the two girls with some sympathy. ‘Don’t be stupid, Kelpie,’ he said. ‘Serve theys.’

Kelpie gave the all-purpose teenage tut and walked over to a silver pot in the corner, slopping out two measures of instant into polystyrene cups before adding half a pint of milk and two sugars to each without asking them.

‘Anything else for you girls?’ said Mr MacKenzie pleasantly. ‘Macaroni pie?’

‘Let me just check my Atkins list,’ said Louise. Katie kicked her.

‘Umm.’

Nothing in the case laid out in front of them looked in the least bit familiar. There were pale brown slabs of what might have been fudge, only harder, lots of circular pies with holes poked in the middle of them which seemed, on closer examination, to hold anything from rhubarb to mince. There were gigantic, mutant sausage rolls and what may or may not have been very flat Cornish pasties. But both girls were starving. Suddenly Katie’s eyes alighted on the scones.

‘Two…um, of those please.’ She couldn’t remember how to pronounce the word. Was it scawn or scoone?

‘The macaroons?’

‘No, um, the…’

‘French cake?’

What on earth was a French cake?

‘The scoones,’ said Louise. Katie winced. There was a pause, then everyone in the shop started laughing.

‘Of course,’ said the man serving, who had a kind face. ‘Would that be a roosin scoone or a choose scoone?’

Maybe not that kind.

Louise and Katie found a bench in a tiny sliver of public park overlooking the harbour. The boats were coming back in, even though it was only ten in the morning. They looked beautiful and timeless, their jaunty red and green painted hulls outlined against the dark blue water. Katie was throwing most of her (delicious) scone to the cawing seagulls.

‘Now I’ve got to find some complete stranger and try and intimidate them.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Louise. ‘A great change from your usual job. Of finding complete strangers and licking their arses until they buy something.’

‘That is not what PR is about,’ said Katie. ‘Except in, you know, the specifics.’

Louise kicked her heels. ‘What do you think people do around here for fun?’

‘Torture the foreigners,’ said Katie. She nodded her head towards the baker’s. Kelpie was heading over their way with two cronies. She had shaken off her ridiculous pie-crust hat to reveal a thick head of wavy hair with four or five rainbow-hued colours streaked through it, and taken out a packet of cigarettes. Even from fifty feet away, it was clear that she was doing an impression of Katie and Louise.

‘We’re big news around these here parts,’ said Katie. ‘I think we’d better make ourselves scarce, before we get bullied by a pile of twelve-year-olds. I’m going to find this Iain Kinross character. Sounds like some anal old baldie geezer who sits in his bedsit writing angry letters to the
Daily Mail.
He’ll be putty in my hands.’

The three girls had seen them now; Kelpie was pointing them out. They were screaming with laughter in an over-exaggerated way.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Louise. ‘Not without me. They’ll flay me alive.’

‘They’re harmless,’ said Katie as they both got up from the bench and started to back away.

‘I don’t care,’ said Louise. ‘Take me with you, please.’

‘I can’t!’

‘Of course you can! Just say I’m your…PA.’

‘I’m not paying you.’

‘Oh my God, you’re a true Scottish person already,’ said Louise.

‘I’d like a SSSCCCCOOOOOOOONNNNE,’ came from the other side of the park, carried on the wind.

‘OK,’ said Katie. ‘But you’d better keep your mouth shut.’

‘A SSSCCCCOOOOOOOONNNNE!’

It took them a while to find the offices of the
West Highland Times,
situated up a tiny alleyway off the main street of old grey stone buildings, which hosted a post office, a fishmongers, a kind of broom handle/vacuum cleaner bits and bobs type of place, a Woolworths and sixteen shops selling pet rocks and commemorative teaspoons. They looked very quiet at this time of year.