minutes he had put the Yaks and their abuse behind him, for stretching before him lay two whole weeks to spend as he chose. Mind, the Easter holidays weren’t like the sprawling holidays of summer, but they were still great. Even though nothing much seemed to happen, Barra’s days were full of them – the happenings.
Wild broom spread along the roadside and clung tenaciously to the rocky mountain reaches. Most of the shrubs were in full flower, but he inspected every bush until he found one with blossoms still held tight by the green pods. He stopped to listen, trying to isolate the little cracking sounds which signalled the birth of the golden flowers.
There! And there!
Barra grinned. ‘Grand,’ he said, and pushed onwards towards the crest of the hill.
Spring came late to Drumdarg, and this year March blizzards had almost obliterated any hope of it coming at all. But it did arrive, and it was everywhere, and all at once.
Where recently wild crocuses had carpeted the earth, new clumps of daffodils grew confidently in their place, and on the trees leaves burst from branches laid skeletal by winter. Snow still wrapped its crystalline blanket across the mountains’ shoulders, but the air was warm, and softer than it had been for months.
Barra came to a stop as a flock of wild geese flew noisily above him, then wheeled in a perfect ‘V’ to settle on the greening earth. He watched them for long minutes before turning to make his own descent. As he swung back on to his bicycle he noticed a figure in front of the gatekeeper’s cottage. Barra shook his head.
Poor Hattie. She’d been there every day this week, and she’d probably be there every day next week – at least until Easter had come and gone.
Barra had seen Kenneth More in quite a few pictures, and was bound to agree with everyone else in Drumdarg that the chances of the actor arriving at Easter to carry Hattie off into the sunset were slim, to say the least. Still, it hadn’t stopped her from telling anyone who’d listen (and precious few did) that the great man was definitely coming to fetch her.
But as fanciful as Hattie’s notion might be, it wasn’t the reason for her nickname. She had been known as Mad Hatters for as long as Barra could remember, long before she had taken to waiting for Kenneth More.
Barra tried to recall when he’d first heard that Hattie had been taken to the jail for murdering her mother, but he couldn’t – at least, not clearly. It had happened so long ago, and he supposed that the stories of the trial and how she’d been set free had been embellished over the years.
Barra couldn’t help thinking that the folks in Drumdarg, and Craigourie too, if it came to that, loved nothing more than a wee bit of gossip.
Even so, he had yet to receive a satisfactory explanation for Hattie’s mad – and quite uncharacteristic – behaviour all those years ago. It seemed to Barra that folks just naturally seemed to clam up any time he raised the subject. It was quite frustrating altogether, but then Barra had little time to dwell on life’s frustrations.
Well, he’d stop and pass the time with Hattie anyway. Maybe it would take her mind off the waiting.
Barra pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. He had never been able to master the art, but it didn’t bother him. In his head he could hear every note.
Hattie was standing quietly in front of the large wooden gate which marked the entrance to Drumdarg House, just as she had done in the weeks before Easter for the past three years. Her eyes scanned the road in both directions, and Barra knew she had noted his approach long before he got there.
Barra was fond of Hattie, rushing to her defence whenever he heard someone remark that she ‘wasn’t the full shilling’. He didn’t have to defend her too often, however, as Hattie Macaskill wasn’t top of the list when it came to gossip. She was just part of the scenery.
He waved as he closed the distance between them and, tentatively, she waved back. Laying down his bicycle, Barra walked over and climbed on to the bottom spar of the gate.
‘How are you the day?’ he asked.
Hattie nodded. ‘I’m OK,’ she answered. ‘I’ll be leaving soon, when he comes to fetch me.’
‘Aye, well …’ Barra said. ‘It’s a lovely day for it.’
Hattie crossed her arms, waiting. She was a small, rounded woman, and today was clothed as usual in a brown jumper and matching tweed skirt which looked as though they had withered on her. With her spiky hair and fierce features, it crossed Barra’s mind that she resembled a malevolent hedgehog.
He was immediately ashamed of the thought, for he knew that her appearance masked a gentle heart and, when you got close up to her (which nearly everyone avoided), you could see that she had a nice smile – sort of shy; and that her eyes were a soft grey colour, like the velvet curtains Mam had in the front room.
Barra jumped from the gate and picked at a stray daffodil.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
‘Och, Barra, don’t be doing that.’ Hattie looked uncomfortable, and shrugged a little farther away from him, her head bowed.
‘C’mon, Hattie. Look at me. Lift yir head.’
She raised her neck free of its woollen collar and Barra tried to stick the flower behind her ear. It held for a moment, and then fell. Hattie caught it in her work-worn hands, cradling it as though it were the finest crystal.
‘Aye, it’s yirself that likes it.’ Barra grinned.
‘Away y’go,’ Hattie murmured, but she, too, was smiling.
Barra jumped up, and reached for his bicycle. ‘Yep! I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Mam’ll be at me for dawdling. Again!’
There was no need to say goodbye. Hattie wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Barra looked up the driveway leading from the cottage to the big house. ‘Where’s Murd the day?’ he asked.
As if in answer, a dog began barking and Murdo Macrae appeared from the back of the big house, Gallus running at his heels.
‘Hi, Murd,’ Barra shouted across the distance between them.
Murdo raised his walking stick in salute and bawled at the dog to stop barking, at which the little white Westie sat stock still and gave a melancholy howl.
‘What a sense o’ humour he’s got,’ Murdo called, bending to give Gallus a few fond strokes.
‘He’s great,’ Barra agreed. ‘How’s Mrs Macrae?’ he went on, as Murdo and Gallus neared.
‘Fit to be tied, Barra. Fit to be tied.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Och, we had word the young master’s coming up, and …’
‘But I thought she liked Mr Cunningham,’ Barra interrupted.
‘Aye.
