Page 74 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
The Sheep Heid Inn, bed and board
‘What do you think?’ I asked Elle.
She nodded emphatically. ‘Let’s go in.’
We opened the door to the decrepit terraced building, and walked inside. It was dark and cramped, with only a dim electric light illuminating the reception desk. I tentatively rang the bell, and an elderly gentleman with glasses and a hunch appeared from the bar in the next room.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Hello, sir, do you have a room spare for me and my wife?’
He eyed me suspiciously. ‘How long for?’ he muttered in his thick accent.
‘The next few nights at least. Perhaps longer.’
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s yer business in Inversneckie?’
‘I’m sorry, where?’
He rolled his eyes at me. ‘Inverness. What are you doing here in the city? You don’t sound local.’
‘You have an impressive ear. We are French by birth, but here to visit our ailing Scottish grandmother.’
‘Oh, aye, and where does she live then?’ he pressed.
‘Munlochy,’ I replied, as quick as a flash. I had seen a sign for the town on our walk in, and made a mental note of the name as it was pleasing to the ear. This seemed to satisfy the proprietor.
‘A room for two it is. You cannae be too careful. Mr Chamberlain’s got all of us looking out for anyone strange, you see.’
‘Quite right too, sir.’
We were shown up to our room, which was dingy and damp, very much like the weather outside. The mattress was hideously thin, and when I dared to lie down for a moment’s rest, my back was assaulted by a barrage of springs. Mercifully, the low quality was reflected in the meagre price of the room, which nonetheless had made a dent in our tiny savings.
‘We must discuss our dialect, my love,’ I said, as Elle joined me on the bed. ‘As we have just learnt, to the British ear we are both softly accented. The last thing we want is attention. Imagine if someone accuses us of being spies!’
She rolled onto her side to face me. ‘You’re right. But what can we do?’
‘Well, I suggest the first thing we do if we’re going to be here long-term is adapt our names. If I am Bo, perhaps I could now be...’ I searched my brain for an English equivalent. ‘Bob!’
Elle frowned. ‘I can’t call you Bob with a straight face. What about Robert?’
I considered it. ‘All right. Robert it is. And perhaps you will become Elle... anor? Like Elinor Dashwood fromSense and Sensibility.’
Her frown turned into a small smile. I thought the reference to Jane Austen would please her. ‘Okay, so we’re Robert and Eleanor. And what about our surname? D’Aplièse is unusual to say the least.’
‘I agree. We can’t risk any unwanted attention, particularly with conscription in full force. I am young, and locals might start to ask why I am not on the front line.’ I sighed in frustration, the weight of the unknown beginning to crush my spirit.
‘Bo, even if you wanted to fight, you would not be permitted to. You still struggle to lift a cello bow. Lifting a rifle is out of the question,’ Elle reminded me. ‘Any doctor would quickly verify that.’
I let out an ironic chuckle. ‘Ah, yes. How convenient.’
Elle rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. ‘If people ask questions about our past, and want to know what we are doing in Britain, I think it makes sense to tell them that we are Jewish refugees, who fled France due to the threat of Nazi invasion. It will at least explain our accents. For half of us, it’s simply the truth.’
‘You’re right.’ I rubbed my temples in thought. ‘We just need some quiet corner of the country where we can remain hidden away.’
‘And finance our existence too, of course,’ Elle added.
‘What about the Highlands? We could go even further north. I see no reason to change the situation we had in Bergen, where we worked as a pair. Perhaps we could take up work on an estate? They’re bound to be short-staffed because of the war.’
