Page 11 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

As Freya looked at the stairs, she knew her dad wasn’t going to be able to negotiate them for a while, so she would need to bring his bed downstairs. At least he’d be within easy reach of the bathroom, she thought, but she guessed he wouldn’t consider it much of a consolation.

However, before that could happen, the place needed a damn good clean and tidy, and Freya couldn’t escape the feeling that she was invading her dad’s personal space as she set to.

Starting with the kitchen, she pulled a face at the sour smell from the sink, which was half-full of greasy grey water. The bin wasn’t much better, and she held her breath as she emptied it.

Wishing she had a pair of rubber gloves, she ran the hot water tap, then squirted in a generous dollop of washing-up liquid. Deciding that she may as well make a proper job of it, she emptied each cupboard, one at a time, before wiping them thoroughly and putting everything back. Once that was done, she turned her attention to the cooker and the fridge.

In all, it took her nearly two hours to make the kitchen sparkle, and she was knackered after she’d finished, but she also felt weirdly satisfied at a job well done.

She couldn’t face cleaning the rest of the house right now, though. She needed food and a bath (she would have preferred a shower, but her father only had a bath), and she didn’t care which order they occurred in. Remembering that there wasn’t a great deal in the fridge, she decided to order a take-away and have her bath while she waited for it to arrive. However, that plan was soon scuppered when she discovered that delivery wasn’t an option in Duncoorie. She would have to go out and forage.

Bath first, then (although she ended up giving the bathroom a quick once-over while she was in there), and afterwards she got dressed and hurried out the door.

By now her stomach was loudly informing her that it needed to be fed, and she was beginning to feel quite drained. No wonder, after the week she’d had, she thought, as she locked the door, but hopefully a meal in Duncoorie’s pub would sort her out.

The pub was more crowded than Freya expected, and she berated herselffor forgetting how busy Duncoorie could get during the summer months.But there was a lot about Duncoorie that she’d forgotten, the memoriesburied deep.

As she searched for a free table, she almost turned tail and left, but the delicious aroma of food enticed her to stay, and she eventually found a small unoccupied table tucked away in a corner near the door leading to the loos.

After perusing the menu, she realised that she had to order at the bar, so she left her denim jacket draped over the back of the chair and placed her bag on the table. Taking out her keys, purse and phone (she hoped her bag wouldn’t get stolen, but she wasn’t taking any chances with her valuables), she walked up to the bar.

As she waited to catch the attention of a staff member, Freya gazed around curiously. It was many years since she’d had a drink in here but the place hadn’t changed much. The layout was the same: the fireplace with its wood-burning stove was still there, although as it was the beginning of summer, it was currently unlit, and the pub still had the old-world charm she remembered.

She placed her order, then took her drink back to the table, thankful that her bag and jacket were still there. Then as she waited for her food to arrive, she pretended to look at her phone when what she was actually doing was people-watching.

Trying not to be obvious about it, Freya scrutinised each face, wondering whether she knew them. Her dad had kept her abreast of some of what went on in the village, but he rarely mentioned anyone in her age group; he was more interested in the goings-on of his cronies and his neighbours, so her old friends hadn’t concerned him.

Her eyes alighted on a large group of people on the other side of the room, and Freya was sure that the tall woman with the dark, curly hair was Jinny Rothwell. Hadn’t Dad told her that she’d married Jean Burns’s son Carter? Jean lived a couple of doors down from her dad, which was probably why he’d mentioned it. Carter was five years older than Freya; she’d hardly known him, but his brother, Mackenzie, had been in the year above her at school.

Talk of the devil…

The man himself was standing at the bar and he hadn’t changed a bit. Well, hehad– he’d grown even more handsome. His hair was longer than she remembered, and his previously dirty-blond locks were now several shades lighter. He’d grown a beard too, and the combination was reminiscent of a Viking or a surfer dude.

She remembered that she’d had the most horrendous crush on him. Looking back, she thought he might well have been her first love – even if he hadn’t been aware of it.

Just then her meal arrived, and it looked and smelt amazing, diverting her attention away from Mack and onto her supper. She ate hungrily, polishing off the lot. When she eventually looked up from her plate, he’d joined his brother and the others.

As though sensing her interest, Mack turned his head towards her and their eyes met. Freya hastily looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring, but she soon risked another look (she couldn’t help herself) and she almost yelped when she saw that he was heading directly for her. However, her consternation turned to relief and then to mortification when he walked past her table, and she realised he was actually going to the gents.

Feeling foolish, she finished her drink. She knew she should go home and go to bed. She had another long day ahead of her tomorrow, and she needed her rest.

Picking up her bag, she pushed her chair away from the table and was about to get to her feet, when she became aware of someone behind her. A sixth sense told her it was Mack.

Freya turned around.

Her eyes were at waist height and her gaze rose slowly, travelling up the breadth of his chest, lingering on the V created by the open neck of his shirt, before carrying on to his face. Her mortification knew no bounds as she realised that he was fully aware of her scrutiny.

‘Hi,’ Mack said. ‘Leaving already?’

‘I, er, yeah.’

‘Can I buy you a drink, or do you have to be somewhere? My name’s Mack, by the way.’

‘Sorry, I have to go.’ She lifted her jacket off the back of the chair.

‘Pity.’ He did look genuinely disappointed, but Freya wasn’t fooled.

He’d been charming back then, too, full of boyish good looks and confidence. It seemed he still was. Maybe if he’d recognised her, she might have said yes. But there hadn’t been a glimmer. He had no idea who she was, or that they used to go to the same school and lived in the same village. Had she changed so much, or hadn’t she made enough of an impression back then for him to remember her? Anyway, why was she so bothered about Mack Burns when she hadn’t seen him for fifteen years and hadn’t thought about him for nearly as long? It wasn’t as though she didn’t have more important things to think about.

---