Chapter 7: Isobel and Christine

I seldom eat lunch in a restaurant, preferring snacks consumed at my desk, yet here I was having my second formal dining experience in less than a week. My meal with Helen had been much easier than I dreaded until I had turned down her request for a menage a trois with John. As I approached the table with Elspeth, I anticipated a simpler, relaxed meal.

It was only when I learned that Heinz Schmidt was my fellow guest that I went to full alert. He and I have done business together for many years, treating each other with mutual respect. In the end, however, he is a businessman seeking the best deal for his company. He has dealt fairly with me because I am a golden goose, and he wants to keep the supply of golden eggs coming his way.

Now I no longer have the backing of Fairchild’s, he may consider my latest innovation as a one-off, which he can exploit without regard for the future. I know that Iain was keen for us to manufacture our product in-house but my interest now, as always, is in the next problem. Given a suitable deal, I would be happy to let Heinz manufacture our product, releasing me and money to work on other projects.

I probably would have approached him in due course, but I know from past experience that my generator should be at a more advanced stage of development to get the best return. Time enough to show it to Heinz when the protype was installed at the cottage. This was scheduled for Easter, and I saw no value in rushing the deployment. The problem is that he is here right now, and I must not appear too evasive.

Nothing had been said to Elspeth about confidentiality, nor could I warn her while we were sitting together. My mind raced through my conversations with her, trying to remember how much she had been told. I concluded that she knew enough to whet Heinz’s appetite without giving away any material facts. All of this passed through my mind while we settled and ordered drinks and food. While we ate, the conversation was general. I reported on the state of my marriage and my new job.

Professor Jeremy wittered on about the wonders of his department and how much better it would be with more funding. Heinz disclosed that he had been promoted to director of research for the whole group and was actively looking for bright young people. (‘Like you, my dear,’ he leered at Elspeth.).

“I might have known that this idea of hers originated with you,” he smirked at me. “We had to rethink our whole attitude to research when you left Fairchild,” he asserted, with what degree of sincerity I cannot tell you. I suspect that was intended for Jeremy since Heinz knew me well enough to guess that I would be sceptical. I smiled in reply.

Jeremy rose to the challenge, praising Elspeth and reminding us that she was the product of his mentoring. He claimed that there were several graduate students as good as her and even more undergraduates who looked very promising. Heinz made soothing noises while emphasising that he would need to see concrete proposals for research projects before commenting further.

I need not have troubled about Elspeth. When asked the purpose of the work she was doing for her dad and me, she blandly told her professor and the visitor that she had been asked to stabilise a control system. “It has something to do with solar power, I believe,” she added with a disarming smile.

Things became somewhat heated over coffee. Heinz wanted to come to Kyle at once to see what I was doing; I told him that he had to wait until Easter since the parts were disassembled and would remain so until the installation was made after building work on my cottage was complete. He was not happy but allowed himself to be diverted by Jeremy who deftly eased me out of the group, sending Heinz to his laboratory with Elspeth.

He wanted, he said, to chat to me about the deal with his student. There were rules, he told me after they were gone, but he did not give any more than a rambling description. He then escorted me out of the refectory with protestations of his regard and his hopes that we could cooperate again in future.

My two formal lunches made an interesting contrast. The hotel had spent a fortune on décor and service while the refectory was old, with high windows and dark wood-paneled walls; the hotel service was indifferent at best. Where the refectory scored was in the quality of the food. The hotel offered tired reheats, but the university provided freshly cooked food, imaginatively presented and using the best of ingredients.

The wines the two venues served could hardly be compared. The merlot presented by the hotel was thin and vinegary, whereas the university offered a chateau-bottled vintage that was rich, fruity and succulent. If I hadn’t been driving north immediately afterwards, I would have drunk far more than the single glass I allowed myself.

Iain met me at the workshop, and we went immediately to the dock where Mandy and Bev were adding the finishing touches to the redesign of the interior of Commie-Tea. They had achieved miracles in a little over a week. The two staterooms aft were magnificent, and they had fitted the settles in the lounge with lubber boards so they could be used to provide two additional bunks. I telephoned the lawyer in Oban there and then to authorise payment with a substantial bonus.

“Your cousin Christine called in on her way to Glasgow to meet her friend,” Bev told me as I turned to leave. “When we told her how hurt you were at that dinner, she said that you were as big an idiot now as you were thirty years ago,” Mandy added. I was ready to defend myself when Bev asked a question that stopped me in my tracks: “Who’s Tim?”

Suddenly, thirty years were forgotten in a flash, and I felt the same pain that had destroyed me at seventeen. “Tim was a comet that crossed the Portree sky thirty years ago,” I told them. “Why would Chrissie mention him now? I thought I had forgotten him. And what has it got to do with Count Hernando?” I was bewildered.

Nothing further was said until after dinner when the two youngsters went off to do their homework and the adults were relaxing with a second glass of wine. It was Bev who brought up the subject of Tim. “It must have been a traumatic meeting since three of you seem to be still affected after so many years.” I resigned myself to telling the whole story.

“The Madison family were guests new to Aunt Anne’s bed and breakfast. Her husband was in the merchant marine and away from home for eleven months in the year. He bought a mansion for his wife and daughter, supporting them when she turned it into a bed and breakfast hotel. Most of the guests stayed for a few days and many of them brought young children – teachers and lawyers, for the most part.”

The atmosphere was great. Many of the adults had discovered Skye as youth hostellers and were returning with their kids who were too young to survive the rigours of dormitory living and cold showers. Izzy, Chrissie and I didn’t see all that much of them, but the girls served them breakfast and I supplied fishing rods and nets. We made some pin money by babysitting for them in the evenings.

Professor Madison, a senior consultant in a teaching hospital, booked the whole house for four weeks. He was accompanied by his wife, who sat on charity committees, his twelve-year-old daughter and Tim. The prof spent the entire four weeks on the loch fishing or in the hills mountaineering (he didn’t just climb hills like an ordinary mortal). They were served dinner every evening and had packed lunches prepared most days.

Mother and daughter were joined at the hip, taking gentle strolls or hiring a taxi to make excursions to Portree and some of the island’s beauty spots. Tim had his own car with a tiny third seat behind the two front seats. Right from breakfast on their first day, mamma, as Tim called his mother, pushed him into the arms of Chrissie and Izzy. They were nothing loth and spent many days being driven around in his babe magnet – his description of his car.

I paid for my bed and board by looking after the extensive grounds. Mrs. Madison was pleasant but with a vague manner while the little girl, Alice I think her name was, was a delight. It was from her that I learned that they had an older sister who was spending the summer with friends in their cottage in Tuscany.

When he wasn’t running my girls all over the island, Tim was boasting of his prowess, always drawing comparisons with me. The three of them enjoyed many a laugh at my expense. I was bewildered, not at the put-downs but at the attitude of my two best friends. I went to a boys’ school and had no experience of how seventeen-year-old girls behaved. When I complained to Aunt Anne, she told me that I had to learn to stand up for myself. “Be a man, Bill. Take what is yours and don’t let anyone put you down.”

Sound advice but I was a seventeen-year-old boy, clever and hardworking, but without achievements to boast of. I played soccer, a game for peasants according to Tim who played rugby – rugger, he called it. I had begun looking at universities while Tim already had a place at Balliol. I didn’t even know that Balliol was a college not a university in its own right.

We both played tennis, so I challenged Tim to a match. He seemed eager, promising to find a court for us. Somehow it never happened. It was years before I realised that he had prevented our meeting since he expected that I would beat him out of sight. The only time I got to spend with the girls was when Tim was busy doing something else.

“That summer was my last spent on Skye. I had arrived full of hormones with many vague plans all or which ended with me having glorious sex with either Izzy or Chrissie or, preferably, both. One look at Tim and I knew that my hopes had disappeared over the horizon. I left as I arrived, a virgin. The following year, fate relented, and I was seduced by an older woman who introduced me to love making gently and kindly. I have not thought of my last summer until you mentioned Tim’s name.”

“Christine seemed to blame you for what happened,” Mandy mused. “You may have forgotten Tim, but she and her friend appear to have the memory close to the surface.” I conceded that there are two sides to every story but that I had honestly told them what I remembered.

“I wonder why she linked the memory of Tim with your upset at her behaviour with the count,” Bev had clearly been thinking about things. “She said at one point that Izzy was the count’s beard. I didn’t know what that meant but I googled it later. It’s someone who disguises the truth like a false beard hides the identity of an actor. And why would she compare her husband to Tim?”

None of it made any sense to me. I had avoided Chrissie for years, exchanging greetings at family get-togethers but not sharing conversations. That changed at her mother’s funeral about five years ago. Chrissie and I spent a long time reminiscing over our many happy holidays together. Nothing was said about the last occasion, so far as I remember. Since then, we have kept in touch by telephone.

Iain suggested that the only thing he could think of that would require a disguise for the count would be to cover his homosexuality. I pointed out that he and Izzy had two children together so that was hardly likely. We tossed the subject around for another hour before we called a halt, agreeing that we would probably never know.

The following morning, I rose with a bright idea. I was a little concerned about Heinz turning up without warning. It would only take him five minutes to work out what we were doing with the generator. Our plan was to fit the prototype at Easter, but I wanted to get it out the way before then.

The girls were doing some finishing touches on Commie-Tea, so I dragged Iain along to hear my proposal. “How do you fancy a shake-down cruise?” That got their attention. “We could leave here on Saturday, sail to Loch Hourn and stay overnight, returning on Sunday in time for school.” The idea appealed to them but there were several obstacles, not least that both kids would be playing school sports on Saturday morning.

It was pleasantly nostalgic to listen to a family argument, reminding me of happier days in my own life. In the end, it was agreed that we could leave shortly after eleven on Saturday. Morag arrived at the boat still in her soccer gear since her match was delayed by an injury. I think she was pleased to have the opportunity to be the first to use the new showers in earnest.

The only minor problem lay in the sleeping arrangements. The squabs for the two berths in the day cabin had not arrived so I arranged to stay the night at the hotel. Louise improved my morale by expressing her delight at this opportunity. We had already booked dinner for us in the hotel dining room. The day cabin was actually a bit cluttered with the generator and several boxes of tools and equipment.

Fortunately, the weather treated us kindly. It was an unusually mild March day so we spent the voyage on deck, or in the galley. The seaway from Loch Alsh to Loch Hourn is narrow, twisting between mountains on both sides. It is like sailing up a long Norwegian fjord. At Kyle Rhea the distance is only a few hundred metres.

Commie-Tea attracted a good deal of attention from other seafarers. The ferry crew normally watch visitors taking pictures of the ferry and the view. They all had their phones out as we passed recording the passage of our strange-looking craft. Once we cleared the ferry, Iain pushed us to our top speed; we logged twelve knots without more than a slight increase in vibration.

The mouth of Loch Hourn can be treacherous in certain wind conditions, claiming the lives of many trawlermen over the centuries. Today, the water was like glass, and we sailed serenely into view of the village. Our intention had been to go ashore and inspect my cottage before mooring at the hotel jetty for the night. As we hove into sight, the hotel bar emptied with twenty or so men and women lining the quay cheering our arrival.

Those who didn’t make it to the pier were standing outside their cottage doors waving scarves and tea towels. I was outvoted, so Iain turned our head towards our fan club. No sooner were we moored than the villagers poured on board for the grand tour. It was a heartwarming reception, and I felt that I had made a wise choice in the location of my new home. Once the ancient mariners had explored every binnacle and barnacle, we adjourned to the bar where we were entertained by tales that became less believable as the consumption of alcohol rose.

Louse had gone all out with dinner. We began with grouse from Glen Shiel stuffed with haggis, followed by sea trout caught in Loch Hourn. The main course was venison from Kintail. As our landlord proudly declared: “It may be roasted or boiled but it’s all poached.” Shortly after that, he had to be helped to his room to sleep off his nightly excess of ardent spirits.

After I walked the others back to the boat, I returned to my room where the landlady was already warming my bed. I fell asleep thinking that whatever lasting arrangement I made for my future life, I did not want to give up the willing devotion of Louise. She had single-handedly restored my masculine pride after my wife almost destroyed it when she chose another man.

On Sunday morning, we sailed across the bay to tie up at the jetty below my cottage. The ladies went inside to inspect the dwelling while the kids ran off amongst the hills. Iain and I used the boat’s davits to land the generator on the trailer behind the little tractor I had bought. We left it, still loaded on the trailer, in the byre.

It took about an hour to move everything we unloaded under cover. I took Iain to view the little brick hut that would house the generator. Then we looked at the solar panels, still leaning on the wall of the byre. He was looking forward to Easter when we will return and complete the installations. The girls brought us cups of tea and enthused over the interior of the house.

“Not much space for a family,” Bev remarked. “But it’s a short trip across to the hotel where it is clear that benefits await you.” She waited until we were alone to drop that little bomb, and she did not seem to disapprove. I thought of explaining or even denying, but I decided to laugh, coyly. I suspect Mandy had also put two and two together judging by the smirk she gave when she asked if I had slept well.

We started back just before twelve. The weather was still good but little flurries of wind were ruffling the surface of the loch by the time we left Loch Hourn. The wind settled in and increased to about force four. It was on our beam, and I was interested to see how Commie-Tea would respond with her high cabin roofs like sails.

She behaved like the lady she is, riding comfortably through the increasingly choppy seas. The journey back took a little longer but was just as enjoyable. Spray crossing the deck drove the passengers into the day cabin, while I remained in the wheelhouse with Iain, under instruction. I was in command for most of the return trip under his watchful eye.

When we stepped ashore, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Work was going well, and my base needs had been sated by Louise. Iain and his family thought I was a great guy. I would have returned to my hotel fat and happy if Mandy had not reminded me that the problem of Chrissie and Izzy was unresolved. To tell the truth, I was feeling a bit resentful with that pair. I did not understand them, and I certainly had no idea what they wanted from me. The reintroduction of Tim after thirty years baffled me. It needed thinking about.

Monday, I devoted myself to the business. I wanted Iain to become involved in the Bernoulli system. He will design the funnel to bring the wind onto my impellors. I am aware that this project is more speculative than usual: I have a tendency to lose myself in a dream world. Iain is a practical engineer who will help to keep me on a sensible track. In the meantime, I may have to develop other ideas that are more likely to pay the rent and put food on the table.

Having my royalties in escrow is a blessing in disguise. I could squander the lot following the next white rabbit I see disappearing down a hole into wonderland. As we talked, I found myself asking for his advice on Chrissie and Izzy. He had absolutely no doubt that I needed an urgent meeting face to face. “This is not something that can be resolved on the telephone. In fact, I wouldn’t even warn them I was coming to see them.” Sound advice, so the following morning I set off for Portree soon after breakfast.

I went first to the guest house where there were two vans advertising a painting company and one man having a smoke break outside the front door. Before I could speak, he ground the stub under his heel and pointed back down the drive. “Empties is at the restaurant,” he told me before turning to go into the house. I know my old Land Rover is a bit scruffy, but I was surprised that he seemed to have mistaken me for a tradesman.

At the restaurant I stepped into the middle of a quarrel that had become heated. On the one hand was an exasperated middle-aged man presumably representing the firm of shop fitters whose van was in the car park. On the other side was a red-faced Marie-Therese, barely reaching his shoulder but with a look that scared me, and I was getting it second hand, so to speak.

I would have interrupted if I could but all I could do was listen, trying to pick up the threads of the argument. The man was claiming that he could not complete the kitchen appliances since the foundation had been put in wrongly. The floor had been skimmed and bolts put in to fix new ovens and cabinets. I had a look at two large pieces of stainless-steel waiting to be bolted down.

Eventually, the man noticed me and turned his wrath on me, demanding to know what the hell I was doing there. I pointed out that the two items appeared to have been placed opposite the wrong row of bolts. “Don’t be stupid,” he shouted at me. “When did you ever see a kitchen with the main cooker right beside the fridge?” I shrugged, drawing his attention to the evidence.

While he looked the situation over carefully, I suggested that he refer to the drawings. He was convinced enough to open his laptop and bring up a folder, all the time repeating that only an idiot would do as I was suggesting. I knew Allie better than he did and nothing she did would surprise me. Furthermore, she would have a good reason for her decision. “Aunt Alison took a week’s holiday since she said she couldn’t bear to see her kitchen being raped,” Marie-Therese said.

The man had called his men in to place the units as planned, cursing all the time about the stupidity of customers, particularly female customers. This was too much for Marie-Therese who ran out of the room. I saw the work started and followed her out. She was sitting in her car sobbing, so I climbed into the passenger seat. I sat quietly while she collected herself.