Death of a Dreamer Read Free

in Lochdubh. Probably some amateur, she thought, approaching him. Jock’s coterie of admiring
women had left for dinner – dinner in Lochdubh still being in the middle of the day, except in posh places like the Tommel Castle Hotel.
    Effie stood behind him and studied his work. His colours were magnificent. He had caught the purplish green of the forestry trees on the other side of the loch, and the reflections in the glassy
loch had been painted by the hand of a master.
    She did not want to interrupt him, but he turned round and smiled at her. ‘Grand day,’ said Jock.
    ‘Oh, please go on. I’m an artist myself, and I hate to be interrupted,’ said Effie.
    ‘I don’t mind. I was just about to take a break. What do you do?’
    ‘Small pictures of birds and flowers, and I’m a potter as well.’ She held out her hand. ‘Effie Garrard.’
    ‘I’m Jock Fleming. Wait a bit. I saw some of your pottery at the gift shop up at the hotel. You’re very talented.’
    ‘Thank you. I live up in the hills above the village. Drop in on me any time you like.’
    ‘I’ll do that.’
    Jock smiled at her again.
    Effie gazed up at him in a dazed way. ‘Come now,’ she said.
    ‘Can’t. I promised the policeman I’d drop in for a dram.’
    ‘I know Hamish. I’ll come with you.’
    ‘Not this time. It’s man’s talk. But I’ll see you around.’
    Effie retreated, cursing herself. She had been too pushy. But she would act differently the next time. And, oh, there would be a next time. She hardly noticed the walk home. This time she was at
her own wedding with Jock at her side. The church bells rang out over Lochdubh, and the villagers threw rose petals. ‘I loved you that first moment I saw you,’ Jock murmured.
    ‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ said Hamish, letting Jock into the kitchen. ‘Where’s your stuff?’
    ‘In my car.’
    ‘You surely didnae drive the few yards from Mrs Dunne’s?’
    ‘No, but it’s a good place to put my paints when I’m taking a break.’
    ‘Sit down,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll get the whisky out.’
    Jock looked around the kitchen. It was a narrow room with cupboards and fridge along one wall and a wood-burning stove, which was sending out a blast of heat.
    ‘I’m surprised you’ve got the fire on today,’ said Jock.
    ‘It’s got a back boiler. I’m heating up water for a shower.’
    ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to have an immersion heater?’
    ‘Thae things cost a mint.’ Hamish put a bottle of whisky, a jug of water and two glasses on the table. ‘Besides, it’ll be a long time afore we see a summer like this
again.’
    He poured out two measures. ‘Water?’
    ‘Just a splash.’
    Hamish sat down opposite him.
    ‘Where are your animals?’ asked Jock.
    ‘Somewhere around,’ said Hamish, who had no intention of telling his visitor that the dog and the cat had eaten well and were now stretched out on his bed. The Currie sisters had
started telling him he was behaving like an old maid. Even Archie Macleod had commented the other day that it looked as if Hamish was married to his dog and cat.
    ‘How’s the painting going?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘It was going fine until I got interrupted by a pushy woman.’
    ‘Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife?’
    ‘No, another artist. Effie Garrard.’
    ‘That quiet wee thing. I’d never have thought of her as being pushy.’
    ‘Oh, maybe I’m being hard on the woman.’
    ‘How pushy?’ asked Hamish with his usual insatiable highland curiosity.
    ‘Let me see. She asked me to drop in on her any time. Then she wanted me to go back with her there and then. I said I was coming to see you, and she said she would come as well. I told her
it was man talk and got rid of her.’
    ‘Maybe she’s lonelier than I thought,’ said Hamish.
    Jock laughed. ‘You underrate my charms.’
    ‘I believe you’re pretty well known. More whisky?’
    ‘Just a little,’ said Jock. ‘My agent’s coming up from Glasgow.’
    ‘I didn’t know