Highland Fling (18 page)

It took a surprising amount of money to park the car in the hospital grounds. Fortunately, Jenny had
brought the takings from The Homely Haggis and had plenty of change.

‘I’m here for Mrs Dalmain,’ said Jenny, through the intercom. ‘I’ve got her things.’

‘Have you? Thank God for that,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Push the door when you hear the click.’

She met a nurse the other side. ‘She’s been driving us all mad,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s bored as much as anything. Do you want to just give me that, and you can be off?’

Jenny suddenly felt hurt. She’d driven a long way, and the thought of not seeing Meggie after all that was disappointing.

‘Oh no, don’t go,’ said Iain, appearing from a room dressed in green scrubs, a mask hanging round his neck. ‘Can’t she come in and see Meggie? She’d be so fed-up if Jenny made that long journey and just went home again.’

The nurse considered, obviously weighing up the pros and cons of having a non-family member in the labour ward when the mother concerned was being so difficult.

‘Are they very close friends?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes,’ said Iain, more loudly.

‘Then I’ll find you a gown and a mask. You can help keep her ladyship entertained.’

Chapter Eleven

They called the baby Anna. The four of them, Meggie and Iain, Jenny and Anna, lay in a huddle on Meggie’s bed.

‘Isn’t she the sweetest thing?’ said Iain. ‘She looks just like you, darling.’

‘Bright red in the face, eyes half shut and fists clenched, I should hope she doesn’t.’ But Meggie’s indignation didn’t fool anyone, and indeed, Jenny thought the little bundle, wrapped in a green cloth, did look surprisingly like Meggie.

‘If she ends up half as pretty as her mother, she’ll be fine,’ said Iain.

‘She’ll be fine anyway. She’s got us for parents – what more could any child want?’

As Jenny left the little family she realised that she and Henry would never have what they had, that her decision to leave him was the right one. Seeing Iain support Meggie through her labour, knowing he was still there, through all the gory bits, long after she, Jenny, had abandoned them to flick through aged copies of the
People’s Friend,
and pace about in the day room, she knew that nothing less was good enough for a relationship to survive. Her mother hadn’t compromised when she had married her father and she shouldn’t either. Staying with Henry was wrong, and
the moment she was free to go down south to tell him, she would. And then she’d move back home until she could afford a place of her own.

‘A girl,’ said Lady Dalmain.

Jenny hadn’t had to break the news. Iain had telephoned, and Jenny had hoped, as it was four in the morning, that no one would be up and she could just slip up to bed, but the moment she got through the front door and the sea of dogs, Jenny realised there was a reception committee.

Felicity came up behind her mother, holding a half-empty bottle of malt whisky. ‘So Meggie didn’t get a boy, either.’

Alcohol didn’t suit Felicity, Jenny decided. It made her small-minded and self-pitying. Perhaps if she married Lachlan, she wouldn’t feel the need to drink so much.

‘Yes! A lovely little girl!’ said Jenny, determined that if there was going to be a party at four in the morning it would be a cheerful one. ‘Anna. Isn’t it a pretty name? And such a sweet baby. I hope you’re going to make a cushion or something for her, Fliss, with her name and dates on it.’

‘My daughter’s name is Felicity,’ said Lady Dalmain, with slightly more sibilants than necessary, and Jenny realised that she too was the worse for drink. She’d seen her hostess consume vast amounts of whisky before, but never had she shown signs of it affecting her.

‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’ said Jenny, making ushering movements, rather as if she were herding unruly sheep back into their field. ‘Where we
can sit down?’ She didn’t want either Felicity or her mother collapsing onto the stone floor; she’d never get them up again. If they passed out in chairs, she could just leave them there.

‘If she’d been a boy, she would have been called Arthur, after her father,’ Lady Dalmain went on, her train of thought unbroken by the change of venue, and the chair under her.

Realising that Lady Dalmain wasn’t referring to Anna, Jenny asked, ‘So why didn’t you call Philip Arthur, then, Lady Dalmain?’ Jenny accepted the glass Felicity handed to her on the basis that their drunkenness would be more tolerable if she was drunk herself.

‘Because he wasn’t the first-born. It was a terrible disappointment to my husband.’

‘Then why did he call me Felicity?’ demanded her daughter, with an unusual display of Dutch courage. ‘That means happiness.’

‘I know what it means! And he pretended to be happy, but I knew I was a terrible disappointment to him!’

The thought of Lady Dalmain drunk was bad enough, to have her maudlin and weeping was too horrible. Jenny decided a little tough love was required.

‘I don’t suppose you disappointed him for a moment. After all, the sex of the child is determined by the man, and I dare say your husband was well aware of that fact.’

Lady Dalmain regarded her, aghast. Jenny couldn’t decide if it was because she’d used the word ‘sex’ or because she’d told Lady Dalmain something she hadn’t previously known.

‘Is it?’ Lady Dalmain demanded. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘How do you know?’ Lady Dalmain was very persistent.

‘We did it at school,’ said Jenny firmly, not wanting to go into details she couldn’t remember. ‘The sex of the baby is determined by the father.’

‘So it wasn’t my fault?’ The voice was getting quavery and pathetic. ‘Not my fault that Felicity wasn’t a boy?’

‘No,’ said Felicity, to whom this was also news, apparently. ‘Jenny says it was Daddy’s fault. And he called me Felicity, which meant he didn’t mind. So perhaps now you can stop being such an ungrateful, miserable, neurotic old cow!’

In Jenny’s opinion it was a shame that Lady Dalmain had fallen asleep before she could hear Felicity standing up for herself, but Felicity, who sobered up the moment she realised she’d called her mother a cow, seemed relieved.

‘Oh my God! What did I say?’

‘Nothing that didn’t need to be said, in my opinion,’ replied Jenny briskly.

‘Poor Mama! We’d better get her up to bed. Can you help me? I’m not sure I can manage on my own. I’ve been drinking.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ she muttered. Louder she asked, ‘Since when?’

‘Since we heard the news about Meggie’s baby, just after midnight.’

No wonder they were both paralytic. ‘Couldn’t we just cover her with a rug and leave her here?’

‘Good God no! She’ll get all cold and stiff. She might
catch a chill or something. We must get her into bed. You get one side, I’ll get the other.’

‘You must love your mother very much,’ said Jenny, heaving one of Lady Dalmain’s arms over her shoulder.

‘I know she’s an old boot and she hates me, but she is the only mother I’ve got. And she does need me.’

‘You know,’ said Jenny, panting, as they hauled Lady Dalmain up the stairs, ‘I think she’d respect you a lot more if you stood up to her. It’s because you put up with the treatment that you go on getting it. Try being braver. And you mustn’t let the fact that she needs you stop you getting on with your own life.’ Jenny was still in ‘tough love’ mode.

‘It’s all very well,’ Felicity opened the door of her mother’s bedroom with her hip, ‘being brave, when you’ve got the best part of a bottle of whisky inside you. You try it when you’ve got a hangover which would kill a bull.’

‘Drink plenty of water before you go to bed. Or something sweet and fizzy, like lemonade.’

‘Are you going to bed now, Jenny?’

‘ I certainly am,’ she said firmly, knowing Felicity would have liked to spend the rest of the night talking. ‘It’s almost morning already and I’ve a lot to do today.’

‘You don’t want to stay up for a nightcap?’

‘Felicity, you’ve had the whole damn négligé, gown, robe, slippers and all. You don’t want a nightcap as well. I really think you should just go straight to bed now.’

‘Oh, OK. I’ll say good night then. Oh, and you won’t forget to get me that paper, so I can begin doing some designs? Lachlan thinks it’s a really good idea.’

‘Jolly good. Now good night, and don’t forget the water.’

Swaying, more from fatigue than alcohol, Jenny got herself to her room and into bed. She just had time to exchange one set of warm clothes for another, before she fell asleep.

In the days since the birth of baby Anna, Jenny had become more and more certain that the sooner she drove down south and told Henry how she felt, the better it would be. The trouble was now, with just a week before Mr Grant-Dempsey arrived at the mill, she couldn’t possibly spare the time.

‘There’s no way we can put Mr Grant-Dempsey off coming, I don’t suppose,’ asked Kirsty. ‘Or at least, coming just now? If we found Philip –’

‘But do you think he’d go along with our plans? For the mill buildings, for the merino wool, for the workers? And would he be willing to use llama and alpaca fibre? Because if you think we’re in with a chance there, we could hire a private detective and find him.’

Kirsty hesitated. ‘He is very traditional and always did suffer from “not invented here” syndrome. But as for hiring a private detective, we’d have to go to Glasgow, probably. It would be easier to find him ourselves. And cheaper.’

‘Well, that’s true. I tell you what, I’ll send my client an email, implying his visit isn’t necessary, just on the off chance that he doesn’t really want to come. Do you think I could tell him the weather’s filthy?’

‘I am not in a position to say what the tenor of your emails to him are,’ said Kirsty drily. ‘Do you usually give him meteorological reports?’

‘There’s no need to go all Jean Brodie on me. I won’t mention the weather. How are you getting on with the business plan?’

‘It looks very encouraging, if you ignore the fact that we can’t develop the offices into starter homes and executive housing. Not without Philip and the deeds, anyway.’

‘The fact that the plan is unworkable is a detail we can’t do anything about. As long as it would probably work is all that’s necessary.’

Kirsty made a querying gesture. ‘How do we know what would work? You can’t predict fashion. Our industry is dependent on the whim of designers who know nothing and care less about the people who produce their designs.’

Jenny concealed a sigh. She was tired and it would be easy to get depressed. What Kirsty said was probably true. ‘Well, predict as much as we can, like how much it would all cost. I’ll see if I can stave off the wicked mill owner.’

‘Come now, dear; we don’t know he’s wicked.’

‘Don’t we? This visit is causing so much anxiety, he can’t be good. Anyway, I’ll compose my email.’

Eventually, after three cups of coffee, she showed Kirsty her final draft.

Plans for the mill progressing well. Managers have
projections for the long, medium and short term.
The prospects for its future success in the long term
are promising. Unless you particularly want to, I
don’t think it necessary for you to visit. Though of
course we would be glad to see you.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it reads like a letter to a teacher telling them there’s no point in marking a test, because all the answers are right.’

‘You don’t think it’ll stop him coming?’

‘No. On the other hand, I don’t know what you could say that would. Send it, and see what happens.’

Jenny was nibbling a piece of Kirsty’s home-made shortbread when she opened her client’s reply.

I am glad that the projections are so optimistic. I look forward to seeing them when I visit. I do hope you have borne in mind that we are not a charitable organisation.

‘It could have been worse,’ said Jenny to Kirsty, later.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know! I just said that to make myself feel better. What we must persuade him is to let us fulfil the orders we’ve got up until Christmas, and only send the machines back afterwards. By that time we might have done quite a lot of the retraining.’

‘It all depends on how this woman with the felt turns out. She sounded very fay on the telephone.’ Kirsty was not a Scot who approved of ‘fay’.

‘I’m sure she’ll be fine! At least her heart is in the right place.’ Jenny was slightly worried about her herself, but as the ‘cup half-full’ part of the relationship, she felt obliged to sound positive.

‘And how long will you be willing to stay? You won’t want to be here until after Christmas, surely?’

‘Well, I expect I’ll go home for the actual event, but I
could come up afterwards. I’ve never known a genuine Scottish Hogmanay, after all.’

Just then Iain popped his head round the door with Alistair, the mill’s oldest employee by several years, in tow. ‘Why don’t you go and see how they’re getting on converting the new machinery?’

Jenny was surprised to see Iain there. ‘Hello! I thought you’d be at home doting over Meggie and Anna.’

He shook his head. ‘No, they’re fine. Meggie’s well able to cope so I thought I’d come see what these old codgers are up to.’