Highland Fling (9 page)

Miss McIntyre clenched her teeth. ‘It was a management decision taken at the time for which I was in no way responsible.’

‘I’m not holding you responsible! I only want to know why!’ Then, feeling she’d been a little too outspoken she sighed, and started again. ‘I’m not Sir John Harvey-Jones; I can only report back what I find, but I would like to report something good about this company, even if it makes no difference, even if it’s just to stop me having to say that this is a tin-pot little mill that makes cheap jumpers for the tourist trade and can’t sell them at a profit! And that didn’t come out right. I’m sorry.’

The two women faced each other, both on the defensive. Jenny wished fervently that she’d just said, ‘Thank you for the coffee.’ There was enough hostility in the world without her antagonising Philip’s ‘right-hand woman’ even further.

Miss McIntyre pursed her lips, as if she was contemplating making some concession, but was not quite ready to back down. ‘I’m sorry if I appear uncooperative,’ she began. ‘It’s just that there’s no other employment hereabouts. A lot of people depend on
this mill, and have done for a long time. It employs at least one parent of almost all the children in the school. If the mill closes, people will move away and the school will close. Even those who have jobs in tourism or agriculture will move if they can. The whole community will die.’

‘I know,’ said Jenny, touched how talking about her beloved mill made this buttoned-up woman suddenly passionate. She was not the only one who cared about their workplace. The flower-filled troughs and hanging baskets were evidence of that. ‘And I promise you,’ she went on, ‘if there’s anything I can do to prevent the mill closing, I will do it.’

The second the words had left her mouth she wondered how she’d let them escape when she had no way of following them up. She must have been mad! Henry would say it was because she was impulsive, sentimental and foolishly optimistic. It was a shame you couldn’t unsay words in the way you could ‘unsend’ emails. Already a little colour had crept into Miss McIntyre’s cheeks. She didn’t exactly smile but she did relax her hold on her lips a little.

‘The wool is there because a manager we had years and years ago was once held up by a dock strike. Couldn’t get wool for weeks. Since then, it’s been company policy to maintain large supplies.’

‘I see.’ Jenny didn’t comment on the folly of tying up thousands of pounds in stock that probably wouldn’t realise its value in finished products.

‘So,’ went on Miss McIntyre, ‘what can you possibly do?’

Jenny bit her lip and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Possibly nothing. But I don’t have to report back
immediately. I can take my time, look at all the options, and then try and make a case for keeping Dalmain’s open. I will need a little help, though. I know nothing about textiles, I only understand figures, and it’s not rocket science to see that if you pay too much for your raw materials and then turn out a low-cost final product, with the help of expensive machinery, you’re not going to be financially viable.’

Miss McIntyre regarded Jenny. ‘I’ve worked for this company all my life, my father before that, and it has not always produced “a low-cost final product”.’ Her disdain dripped from the words. ‘There was a time when Dalmain’s had a name for quality!’

Jenny said nothing for a few moments. Her brain was in a whirl – thoughts about wool, machinery, the beauty of the surroundings, bumping randomly into each other, making no sense. She wasn’t worried, it happened sometimes. Eventually, the thoughts would settle down into something that might be quite logical. She once tried to explain this process to Henry but he had only laughed.

‘When you’ve had your coffee,’ said Miss McIntyre, ‘shall I show you round? It might be useful for you to meet some of the workers.’

Jenny forced a smile. ‘I’d like that,’ she lied, knowing perfectly well she should have refused. Once she’d actually spoken to the workers, the thought of putting them out of work would be even more horrendous. She’d been in that situation herself – being treated like some surplus machinery. It was only when you’d experienced it that you understood why redundant workers referred to themselves as being ‘on the scrap heap’.

And while she’d made a wild promise that she would do what she could to save their jobs, she probably couldn’t do anything. Money would have the loudest voice here – a few jobs more or less would mean little or nothing to M. R. Grant-Dempsey and his syndicate.

But she couldn’t tell Miss McIntyre that she had been wrong, there was no point in meeting the people, that the whole mill was doomed, not after she’d promised to do what she could.

She gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Her first loyalty was to her client, but he was just an email address. He paid her handsomely and regularly, for the work she did, but she didn’t know him. They hadn’t even spoken on the phone. How could she feel more loyalty to him than to people who planted hanging baskets and had children? Especially now, when she had started to wonder about his motives.

Miss McIntyre took her into a huge building, about half the size of an aircraft hangar. It was incredibly noisy and had wooden floors that were tacky underfoot. Miss McIntyre reached into a box and produced two bright yellow pieces of foam. ‘Put them in your ears. It’s a Health and Safety regulation.’

It would have been hard to hear anyway, because of the noise of the machinery, but with her ears stuffed with polystyrene, Jenny could catch little of what Miss McIntyre said.

‘The floor’s tacky because of the lanolin,’ she eventually comprehended, after several seconds of ‘I beg your pardon?’, ‘what’s that?’ and ‘say again?’ ‘Off the
wool. This is where the process starts. We buy in the wool, mostly …’

Jenny gave up trying to hear. She just saw the huge machines, was fascinated by their complexity, smiled at the workers who regarded her with curiosity and, sometimes, hostility. Huge bales of wool, each the size of a car, looms metres long, minded by just one person, a huge machine that fluffed up the wool, turning it into something like candyfloss – the images were confusing, and she knew it would take her a little time before she understood what was going on. But she was fascinated, and knew she couldn’t let all this industry, energy and power fall silent if she could possibly prevent it.

At the end of the day, when Philip reappeared to drive her home, Jenny felt tired, deeply depressed and very cross with him. If he hadn’t abandoned her to do God knows what, Miss McIntyre wouldn’t have got to her. The workers would have remained numbers on the spreadsheet, they would not have become Maisie Nisbet, whose family had worked in the mill for three generations and could rethread a machine in ten seconds, or Donald Mackeen, who’d just got married, whose wife was already expecting and had an invalid mother, or any of the other, real, people she had met. She was a virtual assistant, she shouldn’t have to deal with real people. And if she hadn’t met them, her job would have been simple. She could have just emailed her client about what she’d discovered and gone home.

It wouldn’t have been quite as simple as that, of course; there were a lot more details she had to go into,
but another fortnight would have done it. Then she could have upped and offed, left the Hammer House of Horrors, and fled back to Henry, and the South, where winter didn’t come until the end of November.

The moment she got through the door of Dalmain House the atmosphere closed round Jenny like a cold blanket. She felt trapped, suffocated by the narrow lives of those who lived here. After the bustle of the mill, the house seemed static and inert.

Felicity was waiting with a tray of drinks. Without asking either of them what, if anything, they wanted, she presented them each with a very large measure of whisky. Although from choice, Jenny would have had a cup of tea, she took the offered glass and only remembered her resolution regarding strong drink when she’d taken a substantial gulp.

‘There’s a telephone message for you,’ said Felicity.

‘For me?’ Instantly, she tried to remember who knew she was here. Apart from Henry, her client and her mother, there was no one. If it was Henry demanding her return so she could cook for his cousins, he could whistle. If it was her client, that was fine, although uncharacteristic. Her mother would only ring if it was an emergency.

‘It’s Meggie. She says it’s urgent. Can you ring her, or better still pop down.’ Felicity regarded Jenny with suspicion. ‘I’d forgotten that you knew her.’

‘I don’t really know her. We just got chatting when I called in at The Homely Haggis.’

Felicity winced at the name, which was fairly wince-worthy. ‘Well, if you want to visit, there’s plenty of time before supper.’ There was an edge of resentment
in Felicity’s voice, as if Jenny was being in some way disloyal.

‘I can’t. I’ve just had a sip of whisky large enough to put me over the limit on its own. I mustn’t drive.’

‘You can walk to Meggie and Iain’s.’ said Philip. ‘You don’t mind a bit of a downhill stroll, do you?’

Actually, some fresh air, positive company, and a little time away from Dalmain House seemed extremely attractive.

‘I would quite like a walk, but not if Felicity would like a hand with the supper?’

Felicity shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s all right. It’s all ready. I’ve nothing else to do all day, after all, and you’ve been working. You go and visit Meggie.’

Jenny resolved that soon she must learn more about Felicity, but not now. ‘Is it easy to find, or will I get lost?’

‘I doubt it. You can see the house from the front,’ said Philip.

‘It’s a pity you can’t take the dogs, but they’d never go with you,’ said Felicity, still ambivalent.

‘And Meggie wouldn’t thank you for them in her condition,’ said Philip. ‘She must be very near her time.’

‘Huh, women like her have babies like shelling peas,’ said Felicity, sounding unnervingly like her mother.

Jenny saw the shadow of loss behind her eyes and wondered if Lady Dalmain had completely stolen Felicity’s life, or if Felicity had in part relinquished it.

I’ll lend you a coat,’ said Felicity. ‘There’s a fierce wind and you won’t have anything thick enough.’

*

A tall young man, recognisably a Dalmain, opened the door to the little white cottage. ‘Hello!’ He crushed Jenny’s hand. ‘You must be Jenny. Meggie’s on the sofa, she’ll be pleased to see you.’

The front door opened straight into the sitting room. A fire burnt enthusiastically, vying with the curtains and rugs for brightness. In front of it, on a sofa, lay Meggie, looking weary and depressed.

‘They say I can’t do The Homely Haggis any more. That it’s too much for me and I must close up for the rest of the season,’ she announced, without preliminaries. ‘No one takes my business seriously.’

‘Ah …’ said Jenny.

‘Come and sit down, Jenny,’ said Iain. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Wine? A cup of tea? We can’t run to whisky I’m afraid.’

‘A cup of tea would be wonderful.’

‘Run and get it then, Iain,’ said Meggie, waving a hand. ‘And let me talk to Jenny.’

‘So, what can I do for you?’ Jenny knew perfectly well what Meggie was about to say, but wanted to give herself a little time to think about her answer.

‘You know, don’t you? The Homely Haggis. If you can’t keep it going for me, at least occasionally, I might not be able to open again next summer. You did sort of offer…’

Jenny sighed. ‘I’d really like to help but –’

‘Then help! No one understands how important my business is to me! They don’t understand that it’s my independence and I can’t bear the thought of losing it. They all think it’s just a “little hobby”.’

‘That is
so
irritating! I do understand. Because I work
from home, my boyfriend doesn’t really believe I work at all. It’s one of the reasons I came up to Scotland, to prove to him that I do.’

Iain back in, holding a tea towel. ‘I don’t think The Homely Haggis is a little hobby,’ he said firmly. ‘I just think that you have to think of the baby now.’

‘I do think of the baby! I just want to keep a little stake in the future which doesn’t include the baby! And supposing something happens’ – Meggie paused – ‘and there isn’t a baby?’ she added in a very small voice.

Iain took a breath, not wanting to continue with what was obviously a well-worn argument.

Jenny broke in. ‘I quite understand how Meggie feels. She knows in her head that life is never going to be the same after the baby is born, but part of her wants to cling onto a bit of her old life.’

Meggie regarded Jenny gratefully. ‘Thaf’s it! Thaf’s exactly how I feel! You are clever!’ She paused for hardly a moment. ‘So does all that insight mean you’ll do The Homely Haggis for me?’

Iain sighed deeply. ‘I’ll go and make the tea.’

‘He seems really nice,’ said Jenny.

‘He is, and I’m lying here being a cow as well as looking like one. I’m just so fed up.’ Meggie suddenly frowned. ‘Why are you wearing tartan trousers?’

Jenny looked down at them. ‘I didn’t bring warm enough clothes. I bought these on the way into the mill. Bright, but cosy. I’m just glad my boyfriend can’t see me. He’d die laughing.’

‘A man who cares about what you look like? That’s nice.’

‘Not if it means he makes disparaging comments
every time I wear something he hasn’t helped me choose. He’s actually a bit of a fashion fascist.’

‘Oh. Perhaps I’m better off with Iain who never notices what I’ve got on.’

Iain appeared with the tea. ‘I always notice; I just don’t always comment. Now, Jenny, don’t let yourself be bullied into doing anything you don’t want to do. Meggie can be very persuasive.’

‘So go away and let me be persuasive,’ said his wife. ‘Will you do The Homely Haggis for me?’

‘The trouble is, I’ve no idea how long I’m likely to be here.’

‘Why? Is the business going to close down immediately?’

‘No! At least I hope not. I haven’t had a chance to find out what’s what, yet. But what I’m saying is, I don’t know how long it’s all going to take. I mean, I could say yes, and then be off after a fortnight.’

‘You could spin it out then, couldn’t you? Make it a bit longer?’