Though fashionably smart in a tweed jacket, tie, and flannels that Rosemary had chosen for him, Robert still wasn’t used to being out of uniform and felt more self-conscious than his bride as they entered the B and B’s dining room. They were relieved to receive a jolly greeting, without any honeymoon jokes, from Mrs. McRae, a small, dumpy, and irrepressible Scot who had been running the B and B sixty-five miles southwest of Glasgow for the past forty years, and her husband, Alfred, a partially incapacitated veteran of the Falklands War. The battle that left McRae with a gammy leg and intense pain, especially now in the depth of the Scottish winter, had been the single most important event of his life. It had also left him with a growing conviction that next to Napoleon, Montgomery of Alamein, and Robert the Bruce, he was one of the great unsung strategists of warfare. His greeting to the honeymooners and the other five guests, two couples and a single commercial traveler, consisted of a throat clearing and a stiff nod as he read the latest war news in the Edinburgh Herald.
“What’ll it be, lass?” asked the ebullient Mrs. McRae. “Porridge to start?”
“No, thank you,” Rosemary declined, opting instead for corn flakes — a choice that she had the distinct impression Mr. McRae didn’t approve of. Robert asked for kippers, his request receiving an appreciative nod from Mrs. McRae and one of the other two couples.
Meanwhile Alfred McRae, head buried in the paper, let out his breath in short, audible bursts of disgust, his head shaking at something he’d just read. One of the other two couples, in their late twenties, were finishing their ersatz chicory coffee, excusing themselves from the table. Robert handed a dozen or so one-cup instant coffee packets he had brought with him from Roosevelt to Mrs. McRae.
“Och, mon, will ye look at this, Alfred? Real coffee from America.”
McRae grunted behind the paper while the other of the two couples, a pair in their early forties, Robert guessed, their accents distinctly upper middle class, beamed, as did the lone commercial traveler. “I say,” began the husband, sitting forward, the pale, cloud-sieved sunlight shining on his tan Dutch corduroy jacket. “Haven’t seen anything like that for months.”
“And ye’re no likely to again,” put in Mr. McRae suddenly. “And tha’s a fact. The convoys are doomed.”
“Oh?” said the Englishman in the corduroy jacket, who by now had introduced himself and his wife as James and Joan Price of London, a rather pinched yet tight good-humored look about him, his wife clearly deferring to him, though at the moment she was picking a pill of fluff from his jacket. Wearing a tartan shirt with nonmatching maroon necktie, he was the type of Englishman, Robert thought, who’d wear a necktie to the beach. His wife, a thin woman with mousy brown hair, wearing a beige tweed skirt, white blouse, socks, and what Rosemary’s father would have called “sensible” walking shoes, smiled pleasantly at Rosemary as she flicked the fluff away from her husband’s sleeve. Her husband looked up at the proprietor of the B and B. “Why do you say that, Mr. McRae?”
“What’s tha’?”
The commercial traveler, a tired, overweight, stocky man in his late fifties, was torn between listening closely to what appeared to be a developing argument and watching to see whether Mrs. McRae was going to offer him one of the packets of American coffee. “You say the convoys are doomed?” said Price.
“Aye — we’re all doomed.”
“Och — noo,” interjected Mrs. McRae, sliding the steaming kippers in front of Robert Brentwood. “It’s not as bad as that, surely!”
“Then ye’ve no read the paper.”
“I’ve noo had time,” she said, eyebrows raised good-naturedly.
“They’ve attacked Sullom Voe,” McRae announced gloomily, yet somehow sounding strangely triumphant. “Just as I said they would.”
Robert Brentwood, though he had difficulty understanding the Scotsman’s brogue, knew that Sullom Voe, one of the Shetland Islands, three hundred miles off Scotland’s northeast corner, was the site of a big oil refinery servicing the major part of the North Sea oil fields. He was interested but said nothing, finding McRae’s melodramatic air irritating.
“Aye,” went on McRae, “biggest terminal in Europe ‘tis, Sullom Voe. Tankers line up there like buses.” With that he suddenly swung the front page of the Herald—”RUSSIANS HIT SULLOM VOE!”—for all to see, the color photograph having captured great curling plumes of dense black smoke rising over a glint of gold sea, two tankers barely discernible in the bottom right of the photograph. “Soopertankers at that,” continued McRae, to add to the horror he was clearly enjoying. “God knows how many casualties. Och—” He put the paper down disgustedly on the linen tablecloth and pushed a large, thick china mug marked “British Rail” over his place that of Burns’s poetry toward his wife for more tea. “It was daft of ‘em not to have more air cover. What did they expect? I told them, Maggie — didn’t I? But noo — the experts in London knew best. Air-to-air missile batteries would be ‘sufficient,’ they said — with some fighter cover.” He shot a glance across at Brentwood. “Drained Scotland, they did, and sent everything across the water to save the Frogs. What do they care aboot Scotland?”
“A great deal, I should imagine,” put in Price. “It’s always a problem, I suspect — how many to put where.” He, too, looked across at the Brentwoods. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” said Brentwood. “There’s never enough to go around.”
“Precisely,” enjoined Price.
“Ye no think the oil’s important, laddie?” said McRae, wincing in pain as he abruptly turned around in his chair, left hand vigorously massaging his left kneecap, his right hand ladling heaping teaspoons of sugar into his milky tea.
“Not at all,” answered Price, while his wife, Rosemary noticed, tugged as surreptitiously as she could on her husband’s sleeve, her eyes rolling heavenward as she caught Rosemary’s glance. Rosemary smiled sympathetically.
But Price wouldn’t be restrained. “Oil’s vital, of course,” he said, “but I suppose there was enough in storage in the first few months until the convoys—”
“Och—” said McRae, his tone one of sneering contempt, his left hand continuing to massage his knee. “There might have been reserves for a wee while, but it was obvious right from the very first shot that we’d be in a right pickle. Started rationing straight off, they did. London wasn’t prepared, laddie — and that’s all there is to it. Only thing that surprises me is that the Russians haven’t hit it sooner.”
“I daresay they could use your prescience in London,” said Price. “You should be in the Admiralty.”
There was a flash of anger in McRae’s eyes, his face clouding. “I’ve done my bit, laddie. Aye — and got this for it.” He smacked his leg, glancing at the Brentwoods for moral support. Rosemary reached for more corn flakes while Robert, diplomatically, gave all his attention to separating the second kipper from its spine.
Mrs. McRae suddenly emerged from the kitchen. “Now, who’d like some of Mr. Brentwood’s coffee?”
“I’d love a cup,” said the commercial traveler, rising eagerly, toast crumbs tumbling from his napkin.
“And,” said McRae, staring at Price, who was now looking rather sullen himself, “how old are you, laddie?”
“I’m a lecturer,” Price replied defiantly, quick to the intimation of McRae’s question. “LSE.”
Rosemary looked up. McRae’s chin jutted forward combatively. “Och, never heard of it.” He returned noisily to his mug of tea.
“London School of Economics,” said Price crisply.
“Perhaps,” put in Rosemary, half out of genuine interest, half in an effort to calm things down, “you know my sister— Georgina Spence?”
Price looked at her blankly. “I — can’t say I do. Sorry. I’m— I’m in political studies actually. Theory.”
“Oh, aye,” said McRae, “we certainly need that. A good dose of political theory. Essential war work, is it?”
“She’s in her final year,” Rosemary continued, Price trying to be polite to her while clearly furious at the Scot.
“Georgina… Spence — you said? Spence — yes — I do remember the name, I think. But can’t put a face to it, I’m afraid. It’s a big place. To tell you the truth—”
“Of course,” said Rosemary. “I know what it’s like. I’m a teacher myself and—”
“A lot of people studying politics then, are there?” cut in McRae, ignoring Rosemary and shoveling several more spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. “Special rations — along with exemptions from active duty, is it? For the important work at the university, I mean?” McRae’s gray eyes sparkled even in the dim light of the dining room.
“No,” said Price, hands clasped before him, “no, same ration as everyone else actually. Though we don’t have everything, of course. Sometimes we’ve no sugar at all.”
The door from the hallway opened and the young couple who had excused themselves earlier, as Rosemary and Robert had arrived, came into the dining room — a spot or two of confetti still on the woman’s lambswool coat. The husband, despite the civilian garb, was a young serviceman, Robert guessed as he watched the way the man pulled out and carefully counted the five-pound notes. The man, a little younger than his bride, Robert thought, had the look of a junior officer — anxious to take the lead in front of her but not quite sure of what he was doing. Turning to his wife, he whispered something, Robert detecting a distinctly New York accent as the man finally gave up trying to understand the British currency, handing his bride a clutch of ten-p notes.
By the time the couple had left, their interruption of the table conversation long enough to have cooled tempers, the Prices were completing their meal in silence and, seeing that Mrs. McRae wasn’t going to bring out any more “real” coffee packets, politely fended off further offers of tea. As he rose to leave, Price asked Robert, “You on holiday?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. I suspect we’ll see you again. Joan and I are doing a spot of sight-seeing ourselves. Few weeks off till the new term.”
“Well,” said Robert, rising and offering his hand, “next time I hope you’ll have time for more coffee.”
“So do I,” said Joan, an edge to her voice, smiling at Rosemary. “And not so much talk!”
There was a long silence after the couple left, Robert finishing his kipper, the commercial traveler sitting quietly, hands about the cup of coffee in a warm embrace, but looking as pained as McRae, who was now avidly reading the obituaries. Finally the traveler spoke. “Excuse me. All—” He had the look of a petty criminal. “Does anyone mind if I smoke?” He glanced awkwardly at Rosemary.
“Not at all,” she lied. Next, the salesman sought Mr. McRae’s permission, the Scot shifting in his chair again, pushing his tea mug to a new position. “I’ll not mind.” Mrs. McRae was busy in the kitchen. The commercial traveler sat back, eyes closed to luxuriate in the twin pleasures of smoke and coffee. Through the dining room window they could see the young newlyweds getting into a yellow Honda Civic, the faint remnant of “Just Married” visible across the passenger door.
“That’s a silly thing to do,” observed McRae. “Cost him a packet to get that painted over.”
Mrs. McRae put a new pot of tea before him, smoothing its cozy. “Perhaps they don’t want to paint it over, McRae.”
“Aye,” conceded McRae, knowing he’d gone too far for her liking with the Prices but still grumpily eager to get in a last salvo at the world. “Well, they certainly didn’t mind who heard ‘em during the night.”
Robert saw Rosemary blush. The commercial traveler had his eyes closed in a grin of contentment as he exhaled, the long stream of smoke swirling in the air, as gray and turbulent as the storm clouds scudding in from the Irish Sea.
“You’ll be heading north, then?” said McRae.
“Yes,” answered Robert, his hand beneath the table on Rosemary’s thigh. “Yes, we’re off to Mallaig.”
“What?” said McRae, as if they’d taken leave of their senses. “That’d be nigh on two hundred miles!”
It always amazed Brentwood how the British sense of what distance it was proper or possible to travel in a day was so different from how the Americans viewed it, even accounting for the fact that the long, lonely roads over the moors and through the highlands were often one-way and certainly a far cry from any freeway — or motorway, as the British called it. “We should be there by dark,” said Robert confidently.
“You’ll be seeing Robbie’s cottage first?” It sounded more like an order from Commander in Chief Atlantic than a question.
“Yes,” said Robert.
“And Glencoe?”
It didn’t ring a bell with Robert. Rosemary came to her husband’s rescue even as she was trying to fend off his groping beneath the table. “You remember, Robert. I told you — it was the site of a great battle between the Scots and the English.”
“Who won?” asked Robert, smiling. “The Scots, I guess.”
McRae’s face was swept by squall, eyes brooding and sullen as the clouds congealing over the sea. “It wasn’t a battle,” said McRae. “It was a massacre. Maclain Macdonald, his wife, and thirty-six of the clan. Slain by the English. And by men who had supped with them.” McRae paused. “You’ll not be calling into your Holy Loch then?”
Robert reacted quickly, trying to hide his surprise, turning the question back to McRae. “Holy Loch?”
“Aye. You’re a submariner, aren’t you?”
Robert didn’t answer.
“You’re American, aren’t you?” pressed McRae.
“Yes, but—”
“Your face, laddie,” said McRae. “Clean as a bairn’s bottom. You’ve no seen the sun or any kind of weather for a wee while, have you?”
“You’re very observant, Mr. McRae,” Robert complimented him. McRae came around the table, face grimacing, his limp favoring the stiff left leg. Then, quite unexpectedly, he offered his hand to Brentwood. “Mind how ye go.” Next, his steel-grey eyes shifted from Robert to Rosemary. “And take good care of the lassie.”
Robert nodded his head. “Thank you, sir. I will.”
After they’d packed their bags into the trunk or, as Rosemary insisted on calling it, the “boot” of the Morris and driven off, Rosemary waving back to the lone Mrs. McRae on the porch, Robert wondered aloud why, if McRae was such a determined Scot, he had bothered fighting for the British in the Falklands War.
“The Scots love to fight,” she said simply, winding up her window against the splatter of rain and taking out the map of Scotland’s west coast, looking down at the thin, solitary roads winding up past Ayre to the Highlands and beyond — to Cape Wrath.