But Gavan… He was always kind.
“No,” I say, finally answering him and putting the others out of their misery. Gavan might be decent, but Hattie Logan, Cora Reid and James Ballantyne aren’t. It’s been a long time since we were friends. Seven years, in fact.
“You should think about it,” Gavan continues. “We never see you any more.”
“Da keeps me busy,” I reply. “Lots to do on the loch.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll save you a dance.” He smiles at me, and it’s so bright and lovely that I smile back without meaning to.
And then I see Ren, giving me the briefest wave before ducking down the alley towards the tavern, reminding me I’m not here to annoy the villagers.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Until tomorrow?” Gavan says, his tone hopeful.
“I’ll see you,” I say, only realizing as I walk away that it could be taken as a promise.
*
I go to the general store first, lurking in aisles stacked with jars of pickled cabbage and onions, and cans of milk and oil, pretending to choose between different sacks of flour until the only other customer leaves.
“Has the mail cart been sighted?” I ask Maggie Wilson as I approach the counter, not bothering to greet her first. There’s no need to pretend we’re pals.
I once heard her telling Mrs Logan, in a too-loud whisper she meant me to hear, that I’d cut myself one day if I carried on being so sharp. Old hypocrite. She’s not exactly soft herself.
Maggie Wilson knows everything about Ormscaula – Giles Stewart uses his money and his mill to grease the wheels, but Maggie is a born leader. She’s been the sole proprietor of the store since her husband died a few months into their marriage. Local legend says she took three days to grieve: one to cry, one to bury him, and one to rearrange the layout of the store to suit her better. After that she opened the doors once more and they haven’t closed a day since. That was some forty years ago, and she’s still going: iron haired and hearted.
I’d rather be sharp than dull. Knives are better sharp. You’d think she of all people would agree.
She peers at me over half-moon spectacles. “Aye. He’ll be here midday tomorrow, by my reckoning. In time for the feis this year, it seems.” Then her eyes narrow. “I just hope everyone behaves themselves while we’ve company.”
And, right on cue, my cheeks start to burn.
I had a crush on Duncan Stroud, the mailman, a couple of years ago. I was hardly the only one; the first time he came, aged twenty and new to the job, the square was packed to the walls with every woman in Ormscaula eager for a look. I went half-daft watching the muscles in his arms move when he bore the weight of each sack to the ground. I’d never seen anything like it.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d said as he was leaving, tipping me a wink, and I was done for. That was all it took.
I spent six months waiting for him to come back. I’d already hatched my plan to leave the village, but after Duncan my fantasies of escape took a different turn, ones that involved him throwing me over his shoulder and saying he had to have me as his bride, he couldn’t live without me, and he was taking me with him.
In my defence, I was fourteen. I didn’t know any better. So I suppose what happened next served me right.
When he returned, I was waiting. Sitting at the side of the road outside Ormscaula in my best skirts and blouse, trying not to squint when the sun got in my eyes. He recognized me and pulled his cart over, offering me a ride. I promptly got in, gave him the completed transcripts, and as he leaned forward to put them away, I tried to kiss him.
I caught his cheek. He didn’t laugh, to be fair; just moved me away and told me in a heartbreakingly gentle voice that I was very bonny, but too young for him. And in response I ran. Jumped out of the cart and bolted back up the mountain to lick my wounds.
He left the new manuscripts for transcribing with Maggie, who glared accusingly when I slunk into the store to ask if she knew what he’d done with them. I’m sure he never told her what happened, but since then she’s always had a censorious look in her eye when I’ve asked her about him.
“I suppose you’ll be back to meet him then?” Maggie says, right on time with her sniff of disapproval. “For your work,” she adds, and I fight not to blush again.
If only she knew that Duncan was my unwitting escape out of here. That in a few days’ time I’ll be hidden under sacks of mail and goods, grateful I never have to see her mug again.
“Got to keep the wolf from the door, Mrs Wilson.” I smile widely at her.
“I should think it’s the wolf already inside you’d want to worry about.”
My chest tightens. “And what does that mean?”
“Nothing at all,” she says, in a tone that means the opposite. “Well, I won’t keep you.”
She means “get out”, so I do, before I say something I’ll regret.
SIX
I find Ren in Mack’s Tavern.
It’s got what a generous person would call “a lot of character”: ominous dark stains on the wooden floor, tabletops scarred with pocks and scratches, a mangy one-eyed cat sitting sentinel on the bar that would bite you as soon as look at you.
It’s got what I call “a death-trap air about it”, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The tavern sells two types of stout, one type of whisky and that’s your lot. For the nobler folk, like Giles Stewart, there’s the inn, where you can buy a nice dinner from Rosie Talbot and wash it down with wine; but for the likes of Ren and me, and a lot of the folk who work nights at the mill, it’s the tavern. Today, though, it’s nearly empty; everyone at work, or asleep before the night shift.
Ren sits in a corner, nursing a clay tankard. He’s wearing a black coat with the collar turned up, his hair spilling over it. He doesn’t look up until I sit opposite him, and then sharp blue eyes meet mine.
He ate the whole bag of pine candy. All but the piece in my mouth.
How could I not remember that?
“Hi,” I say, covering my confusion by reaching for his tankard and drinking from it.
It’s not ale; it’s apple juice. Refreshing after my walk. But surprising. I push the tankard back towards him.
“Have you got the money?” he says quietly.
I reach into my basket and pull out the money for my bullets, a discreet bag of coins, each one wrapped in a scrap of cloth to keep them from chinking together and revealing themselves. I check Mack isn’t in sight before I slide it across the table to Ren. The cat eyeballs us, supercilious.
It looks like Ren simply waves a hand over it, then it’s gone and his hands are clasping the tankard once more. He still doesn’t say anything, lifting his cup and drinking.
“And my half of the deal?” I ask when the bullets don’t appear on the table with the same sleight of hand trickery.
His eyes slide to the side, where Mack has appeared, joining the cat in watching us with mild derision as he dirties a tankard with a grubby-looking cloth. “Not here.”
I lower my voice. “Then where?”
“Come on,” he says, standing and sliding out from the table, his bad leg making the movement awkward.