“Hochama what?” I ask incredulously. Sometimes, Scots really is another language.
“She means a side ho’.” Mari’s words sound a little sneery, but it’s hard to tell, given her eyes are still glued to her phone. Honestly, if I hadn’t worked alongside her these past few weeks, I might think that thing is attached to her hand. I mean, I like my phone, and I like the ’gram, but I’m not obsessed. Like some people. “And he he hasn’t,” she adds. “My auntie’s sister’s husband works for them over on their estate in Auchenkeld,” she decrees, her tone highly patronising. “They don’t live in America all the year-round. Anyway, he says they can’nae keep their hands off each other and that she’s expecting another bairn.”
Bairn, not barn, which is Scots for child. When I googled it, just to be sure, I found out the word comes from the Danish for child. That’s Danish as in Vikings, who raped, pillaged, then settled on this coast long, long ago. Following on from that, I tried very hard not to imagine my recent association with the Vikings. Or rather Viking. Okay, so I may have dwelled a little. But, in other words, it sounds like Dylan Duffy’s wife is pregnant. It helps that I’m getting better at reading between those Scottish accented lines.
“Och, that’s braw!” Chrissy announces, ignoring the younger woman’s tone. Braw is a good thing. And och I’ve come to learn can convey sorrow, pain, resignation, weariness, or as in this case, a pleasant surprise.
I zone out a little as I make my magic brew, wondering what I should wear tomorrow night. I might even bust out my Prada purse, which hasn’t seen daylight in weeks. Jeans definitely, I think. Maybe a cute shirt. And a coat because, despite summer being just around the corner, the evenings are still cold. And often wet.
Honestly, for the weather, I might as well have stayed in Mookatill.
Coffee made, I find myself smiling into my cup as the pair talk about the formal dinner tomorrow night in tones of awe. I mean, I get it. Hollywood stars and all. One particular Hollywood star that has a little extra somethin’ somethin’ in his pants, according to that time he broke the internet a few years ago. I didn’t see it myself, but Dylan Duffy apparently had some home movies, of let’s say a delicate nature, leaked. Word was the man is hung. I guess it made for popular watching, especially when it was announced he’d secretly been married. And then they had kids! Ovaries popping all over the place!
Where was I? Jeans and a cute top. Maybe I’ll even bust out a pair of heels unless I’ve forgotten how to walk in them. I wonder what the pub is like. I know there are two of them in the village. Two pubs, something called a “chippy”, which is a takeaway joint. There’s also a dine-in Indian restaurant, which makes the village positively cosmopolitan.
“Dougal says venison.” Chrissy’s words somehow register in my brain, bringing me back to the conversation.
“It’s always bloody venison,” Mari replies scornfully.
“Bloody is how it’s served. And why go to the expense of the butcher’s when you’ve some many of deer roaming about?”
Can’t say I’d ever had venison until I moved to Scotland.
“McCain went down to the cellars and brought up the good wine,” Chrissy adds. “Champagne, too. The vintage stuff.”
I was right in declining Isla’s invitation. This is definitely not my kind of party. Even if I’m more likely these days to be found sipping a cocktail or a glass of (non-vintage) champagne than I am doing tequila body shots.
“Come on, Gert.” I stand under the stone portico, the one with the weather-worn heraldic shield carved into the masonry, Gertie’s leather lead in hand. Not that she’s budging. She apparently has no intention of going for her afternoon constitutional, which I’d volunteered to supervise. It had seemed like the right thing to do because almost everyone in the castle is running around like headless chickens in preparation for tonight. Also, I don’t have the school run today because Isla said something about needing to talk to Hugh’s teacher.
“We’ll do a quick lap around that tree.” I work the zipper on my jacket up to my chin and pull on the lead again. Gertie just looks at me balefully, her butt firmly cemented to the floor. I can’t say I blame her because it’s raining again. Just for a change. The Bible might talk of it raining for forty days and forty nights but that just seems like a spring in Scotland. “I can’t take you back in until you’ve done what needs to be done,” I say, not feeling too dumb for continuing a conversation with a dog. One-sided conversations are sometimes the best kind of conversations to have. “Please? How about you pee and I give you a treat?”