it for me properly till I can take it to Wick.”
“I’d choose a dry day, if I were you,” he advised, laying the plugs on the hearth. “Will you have something to eat?” He glanced at the table, frowning.
“No, thank you.” She chose to remain independent as far as possible.
“Coffee, then?”
The appetising smell from the percolator was too much for her.
“Perhaps a cup of coffee.”
He went to the kitchen to wash his hands and the collie settled down before the fire to sleep.
“You must be frozen stiff,” he said when he returned to find her with her gloves off and her hands outstretched to the blazing driftwood. “Nobody could keep warm on a morning like this.”
“You’ve been out,” she suggested, watching as he shed his oilskins. “Possibly as early as I have.”
“I thought it best to bring in some lobster-pots.” He examined a blister on his hand as he sat down at the table. “Would you care to take one back for your mother?”
“I—thank you very much.” She was surprised by the offer because his whole manner was briefly dismissive. “If my mother can’t eat it I’m sure Kirsty will be glad to have it.”
He looked amused.
“But not you? Has London blunted your appetite for lobster?”
“I was never very keen. I hate the way they have to be cooked.” He attacked his first egg as she poured out the coffee.
“Is Kirsty staying with you?” he asked.
The question surprised her.
“We couldn’t manage without her. She’s been at Craigie Hill for as long as I can remember. Kirsty’s a fixture. My mother depends on her so much.”
“Of course,” he said, buttering a hunk of bread, “you were never meant to come back to Caithness, were you? You were following your own bright pathway to the stars. Robin used to call you the Genius.”
“You knew my brother.” Her voice caught on the words. “You were—his friend.”
He looked round at her, his expression subtly changed.
“I suppose you might say that I knew Robin,” he agreed.
She waited, but that was to be the end of confidences. When he had eaten another hunk of bread he rose to his feet, leaving the second egg to grow cold on his plate while he picked up the plugs to examine them.
“They’re dry enough,” he decided. “I’ll put them back for you.” “I can manage,” she told him firmly. “I’ve seen it done before.” Her flushed face and independent manner made him look at her more closely.
“You don’t like to be helped, do you?” he said. “But I’d prefer to see you safely on your way.”
He couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, Alison thought.
“I’m ready to go,” she told him briefly. “I didn’t try to stall the van, but thanks for the coffee, anyway. At least it made me feel warm.”
He turned towards the kitchen.
“What about the lobster?”
“I’ll take it for Kirsty.”
He brought it in, still in its wicker pot.
“You can return the pot tomorrow,” he said, “when you come with the milk.”
It took him less than ten minutes to re-insert the plugs and start up the engine. The whole procedure appeared childishly simple in his capable hands.
“Jump in,” he advised, “while the going’s good. I wouldn’t stop too often on your way home, if I were you.”
“I’ve only one call to make,” she told him. “At the Lodge.”
He said: “They’ll be waiting for their milk,” and stepped back. Alison leaned across the steering wheel.
“Thanks—for everything. I couldn’t have managed by myself,” she confessed.
He stood by the gate until she was out of sight, a tall, dark, remote figure with the wind whipping his coat about him and the remnants of the rain blowing in his face.
He wanted to be alone, Alison thought on her way across the promontory, and she had thrust herself across his path, but he had no intention of letting her into his life, not even on the plea of neighbourliness. He had elected to live up there at Sterne, cut off from the glen
“I’d choose a dry day, if I were you,” he advised, laying the plugs on the hearth. “Will you have something to eat?” He glanced at the table, frowning.
“No, thank you.” She chose to remain independent as far as possible.
“Coffee, then?”
The appetising smell from the percolator was too much for her.
“Perhaps a cup of coffee.”
He went to the kitchen to wash his hands and the collie settled down before the fire to sleep.
“You must be frozen stiff,” he said when he returned to find her with her gloves off and her hands outstretched to the blazing driftwood. “Nobody could keep warm on a morning like this.”
“You’ve been out,” she suggested, watching as he shed his oilskins. “Possibly as early as I have.”
“I thought it best to bring in some lobster-pots.” He examined a blister on his hand as he sat down at the table. “Would you care to take one back for your mother?”
“I—thank you very much.” She was surprised by the offer because his whole manner was briefly dismissive. “If my mother can’t eat it I’m sure Kirsty will be glad to have it.”
He looked amused.
“But not you? Has London blunted your appetite for lobster?”
“I was never very keen. I hate the way they have to be cooked.” He attacked his first egg as she poured out the coffee.
“Is Kirsty staying with you?” he asked.
The question surprised her.
“We couldn’t manage without her. She’s been at Craigie Hill for as long as I can remember. Kirsty’s a fixture. My mother depends on her so much.”
“Of course,” he said, buttering a hunk of bread, “you were never meant to come back to Caithness, were you? You were following your own bright pathway to the stars. Robin used to call you the Genius.”
“You knew my brother.” Her voice caught on the words. “You were—his friend.”
He looked round at her, his expression subtly changed.
“I suppose you might say that I knew Robin,” he agreed.
She waited, but that was to be the end of confidences. When he had eaten another hunk of bread he rose to his feet, leaving the second egg to grow cold on his plate while he picked up the plugs to examine them.
“They’re dry enough,” he decided. “I’ll put them back for you.” “I can manage,” she told him firmly. “I’ve seen it done before.” Her flushed face and independent manner made him look at her more closely.
“You don’t like to be helped, do you?” he said. “But I’d prefer to see you safely on your way.”
He couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, Alison thought.
“I’m ready to go,” she told him briefly. “I didn’t try to stall the van, but thanks for the coffee, anyway. At least it made me feel warm.”
He turned towards the kitchen.
“What about the lobster?”
“I’ll take it for Kirsty.”
He brought it in, still in its wicker pot.
“You can return the pot tomorrow,” he said, “when you come with the milk.”
It took him less than ten minutes to re-insert the plugs and start up the engine. The whole procedure appeared childishly simple in his capable hands.
“Jump in,” he advised, “while the going’s good. I wouldn’t stop too often on your way home, if I were you.”
“I’ve only one call to make,” she told him. “At the Lodge.”
He said: “They’ll be waiting for their milk,” and stepped back. Alison leaned across the steering wheel.
“Thanks—for everything. I couldn’t have managed by myself,” she confessed.
He stood by the gate until she was out of sight, a tall, dark, remote figure with the wind whipping his coat about him and the remnants of the rain blowing in his face.
He wanted to be alone, Alison thought on her way across the promontory, and she had thrust herself across his path, but he had no intention of letting her into his life, not even on the plea of neighbourliness. He had elected to live up there at Sterne, cut off from the glen
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