The Tartan Touch Read Free

“Shall we go back to the manse and have some tea?”
    I was to rn in two. I was dying for a cup of tea, for I had had nothing yet that day, but neither could I be rid of him quickly enough. He was a hard man, without sympathy for the widow or orphan, and I had little to do with bad men, even while I could recognise them from my father’s constant preaching on the subject .
    I compromised by saying nothing but falling in with his stride as he walked towards the manse. He walked well, as though he were accustomed to using his feet, and I had to concentrate to keep up with him, for his step was longer than mine as he was more than six feet tall and I a mere five feet two inches.
    I put him in the parlour. It was a room we never used normally. It was full of the stuffed heads of animals that my father’s predecessor had hung on the wall all of fifty years before. Their glass eyes stared sightlessly at any intruder with inhospitable indifference. Mr . Fraser blenched visibly.
    “What’s the kitchen like?” he asked .
    I was embarrassed and showed it. “If you will make yourself comfortable, I’ll bring the tea,” I said with dignity.
    “Not on your life!” he retorted.
    We beat a retreat to the kitchen with me leading the way, scarlet in the face, a colour which clashed with the sandy hair I had inherited from my father. The kitchen, I thought, was too intimate a place to entertain a stranger.
    Mr . Fraser sat down on one of the scrubbed wooden chairs and watched me as I raked up the ashes in the stove and set the kettle to boil.
    “I could make some scones,” I said doubtfully. “If you’re hungry, that is?”
    “Fine,” he said.
    I wished I hadn’t made the offer when I put the ingredients out on the table, very much aware of his eyes watching everything I did. My hands trembled somewhat as I cut the dough into lumps and placed them on a baking tin. I wasn’t used to an audience when I cooked.
    He drank his tea hotter than I could manage. The best cups I had got out in his honour looked inadequate and flimsy in his strong, tanned hands. In a single gulp the contents had completely disappeared and he was holding out his cup for more. It was much the same with the scones. To my relief, they came out light and airy, just what scones ought to be. I buttered them quickly and placed them at Mr. Fraser’s elbow so that he could help himself, and sat down opposite him, pulling my own cup of tea closer to me.
    “Are you still hungry, Mr . Fraser?” I asked with gentle irony.
    His steely grey eyes met mine. “I congratulate you, Miss MacTaggart,” he said formally. “ You can cook.”
    I was pleased, but I tried not to show it. I took a quick sip of tea and nearly choked. It was strange that someone so unpleasant should interest me so much. It was because I had met so few men of any sort, I told myself wisely. There had only been the minister from over the way and the few crofters who were left locally, and none of them knew anything more about the world than I knew myself.
    “Don’t they feed you in Australia?” I said pertly.
    “More or less,” he answered. He helped himself to the last of the scones, unabashed, liberally spreading i t with jam. It disappeared with the rest of them into his stomach. In a second, I thought, he’d be asking for more!
    “What are you going to do when you leave here?” he asked me suddenly.
    My personal worries settled about me again, as close as the mist outside. “I’ll go away from here,” I said. “ Maybe I’ll be off to London.” I longed to see London. It was farther away than Edinburgh or Glasgow and I’d been told that it was bigger than the both of them. No, I’d go to London and make my fortune there. Maybe I’d marry a fine man down there. There must be more than one Scot in a place as large as London Town.
    “Why not Australia?” he suggested quietly.
    For a second the world stood still. It whirled on its axis to make up for lost time, making me feel