Page 34 of Highland Getaway
‘I’ll take one of each,’ I tell her, knowing there’s no way I’m going to be able to pick a favourite. ‘And, um, two of this spicy one. I don’t suppose you take credit cards, do you?’
I’m half-expecting her to say no, but she produces a card-reader without comment, and I hold my breath as the transaction goes through, praying I’m not up to the limit on my card yet.
‘You know, you should try selling these at the hotel,’ I say thoughtfully as the woman hands me a little paper bag with what I’m assuming is her name – Isobel Lamb – on the front. ‘You know, the Chrysalis? It’s in this old castle, not far from here.’
‘Aye, I know the place,’ says the woman shortly. ‘We all know that place.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I say, surprised at the change in tone. ‘Well, it’s just, I’m staying there for a few days, and the bathrooms are filled with products, which are all very nice, but not nearly as nice as these. I was thinking maybe you could approach them and see if they’d stock your stuff instead? I bet they’ll get through tons of toiletries once the hotel’s properly open; you could make a fortune from it. And it’d be nice for the guests to be able to try some locally made products, rather than the kind of thing you can get anywhere.’
I beam at her, pleased with myself for having come up with this idea.
‘Aye,’ says the woman, clearly meaning ‘no’. ‘That’d be a good idea right enough . . . if the new laird wasn’t too far up his own backside to be bothered with the likes of us. Isn’t that right, Ian?’
‘That’s right, Izzie,’ says the man at the stall next to hers, who’s been blatantly listening in to the entire conversation, without even pretending otherwise. ‘Up his own arse, so he is.’
I squint at them both in surprise. The man – Ian – has short, yellow-blond hair, rosy cheeks and very blue eyes. His stall is a riot of colour, selling fresh produce like carrots, turnips and leeks, which leads me to believe he’s from one of the nearby farms.
Miss Marple would certainly be proud of me, with these deduction skills of mine.
‘The new lord . . . I mean laird?’ I venture cautiously. ‘What happened to the old one, then? I thought he was still living up at the castle?’
Izzy snorts, her craggy, sharp-nosed face creasing with amusement.
‘Oh, aye, he is,’ she says. ‘He’s probably still up there, pacing the corridors like an old ghoul. But it’s his nephew who’s in charge these days. Or great-nephew, it must be, I suppose. Whatever he is, he wants nothing to do with us villagers; that’s one thing I can tell you for sure.’
‘Now, theoldlaird,’ says Ian, putting some parsnips into a brown paper bag and handing them to a customer as he speaks. ‘He was a different kettle o’ fish. A bit of a devil, mind, but always keen to do his bit and send some business our way. But since they decided to turn the place into a hotel, that all changed. Everything has to come from wholesalers now, to keep the price down. They buy nothing local anymore.’
‘But that’s terrible,’ I say. ‘That’s one of the best things about travelling somewhere; getting to try all the local produce. Can’t you speak to him? Set up a village meeting or something?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ says Ian, his good-natured face clouding. ‘He doesn’t even live here. I don’t think he’s even visited the place. He’s just a toff from Glasgow.’
‘It’s thought he might be a Nuckelavee,’ says Izzie in a low voice, leaning close as if imparting a secret.
‘Now, it’s only thought that byyou, Izzie,’ points out Ian. ‘Don’t go scaring the lass.’
‘A Nuckelavee?’ I say, hardly daring to ask. ‘What’s a Nuckelavee?’
‘Why, a Nuckelavee is one of the very worst things there is,’ says Izzie dramatically. ‘A bringer of plagues, droughts and misfortune; particularly to the fishermen and farmers. They normally come from the Orkney isles, but this one comes from Glasgow, which is even worse.’
‘Ithasbeen a bad year for us farmers,’ says Ian glumly. ‘Nuckelavees or not. We used to send hundreds o’ tatties up to the castle every year, when the old laird was in charge. And now nothing. It’s had a big effect on the farm. I even tried to turn one of the fields into a pumpkin patch this year, but it was too muddy for it to work. The wee ones kept getting stuck. And it was turnips we were selling, not pumpkins. The wee ones always used to carve turnips at Halloween, but these days it’s pumpkins they want. It’s all Americanised now, isn’t it? I blame that Justin Bieber.’
‘He’s a Nuckelavee,’ says Izzie, as if that settles it. ‘I told you so.’
‘Justin Bieber?’ I ask incredulously. ‘But that’s—’
‘Not Bieber,’ Izzie interrupts. ‘Well, actually, he might be one as well. I’ll have to consult the cards. But no, I meant the new laird.He’sthe Nuckelavee. Destroying the crops and bringing chaos to all.’
‘I think he’s a property developer, actually,’ puts in Ian. ‘That’s what I heard, anyway.’
‘Aye, that’s what they all say,’ mutters Izzie darkly. ‘He’ll be planning to sell the place the first chance he gets. Nuckelavees and property developers – they’re all the same.’
‘I’ll buy some tatties from you, Ian,’ I say, hoping to change the subject. ‘Wait, actually, tatties are potatoes, aren’t they? On second thoughts, that’s maybe not such a great idea: I don’t really have anywhere to store them in my hotel room. Or cook them. I don’t think Dante would like the thought of me trying to roast them over the fire, somehow.’
‘If it’s the Dante I’m thinking of, then no, he certainly would not,’ says Izzie tartly. ‘Ideas above his station, that one. The village was always too small for him and his big ideas.’
‘Now, now, Izzie, I don’t think that’s quite fair,’ Ian puts in. ‘I was speaking to Dante’s mother just the other day, and she was telling me what a big help he’s been to her. Paid to have her roof fixed after that big storm, apparently. She reckons that new job of his has been good for him.’
‘Aye, I bet it has if he can afford to pay for things like that.’ Izzie sniffs. ‘Still, it’s good that he’s helping out,’ she adds, relenting slightly. ‘Maria’s been on her own for as long as I can remember. She’d never have been able to fix that roof herself.’
