Chapter 22 Ayrshire
The train huffed to a stop at Ayr, great clouds of steam surrounding its wheels. A motorman put down the steps and began to hand passengers down to the platform. Driving rain and wind almost pulled his large umbrella from his grasp, but he held it firmly, trying to protect the debarking passengers from the fierce storm.
A pair of feet in waterproofed boots clumped down the steps, followed by a voluminous mackintosh and a head covered by a heavy woollen cap. The traveller waved off the motorman's assistance and jumped down lightly to the platform, then strode through the rain to the station house, enquiring of the station-master where nearby lodgings might be found.
A horse-drawn cab stopped, and the traveller clambered inside, shaking off the rain like a great dog. "Mrs McHattie's inn, if you please," the passenger shouted out to the driver. They pulled away from the station, the cab's wheels throwing up spray from the pavement with every revolution.
The traveller loosened the wet mac a bit; it wasn't terribly cold, just wet and windy. In a few minutes they arrived at the inn. The voyager paid the cabbie, hefted a heavy rucksack and knocked firmly on the door. It must have been Mrs McHattie herself who answered it: short, skinny, with a hatchet face and a mingy bun of grey hair on top of her head. "Coom in! Coom in, don't stand thair with the wind an' the rain blowin!" She stomped off to the desk and presented the traveller with the signing-in book. "Are ye th' Russell that sent me the tellygram?"
"I am indeed, Mrs McHattie. I shall be grateful for any supper you can give me, and to find my bed. I have been on the road all day."
McHattie looked Russell up and down. 'Ye're younger than I thought. A mere lad, from the looks o'ye." She sniffed. "Coom on, then. Hang yer wet mac on th' peg, have off wi'yer boots, and ye can put yer bags in yer room. It's top o'the stairs, on the left."
Russell took off the heavy mac and hung it up. She sat down on the hall-piece bench and tugged off her boots, shaking her head; her socks were sodden as well. So were her tweed trousers, ancient inheritance of her father, and her heavy wool cap. She stood, boots in hand. Mrs McHattie waited for her at the foot of the stairs. "Weel? Are ye comin' or no? Take off yer hat, lad, ha'ye no manners?"
Russell walked over to the stairs and her hostess. "I'm sorry, ma'am," she said. "My hat is so wet, I'd rather take it off over the sink in my room." Mrs McHattie turned and clumped up the stairs, Russell trailing. The woman opened the door, handed Russell the key, and clumped back down. "Supper's in the dinin' room," she said.
Mary Russell shed her wet socks and trousers and hung them over the back of a chair she set in front of the fire. Steam rose from the fabric, and she smiled as she remembered doing the same thing after many tramps with Holmes. I've been cold and wet most of my life, it seems, she recalled. She rubbed herself dry with a towel, and then put on a long woollen skirt, fresh stockings and a pair of shoes from her rucksack. Her jacket and shirt would do. She tossed the wet cap onto the back of the chair by the fire, and wrapped her head in a towel. She had braided her hair and wound it around her head; she could go down-stairs without looking a fright. Although, she mused, Mrs McHattie may well take a conniption.
Her telegrams to Holmes at Edinburgh had not been returned, nor had she heard aught after she enquired at the general post office of Ayr. So this was the famous resort area, was it? Early summer, and it looked and felt for all the world like November. She went downstairs, braved Mrs McHattie's splutters and "Weel! I never!" and was served a supper of grilled fish, plain but very fresh, a side dish of 'tatties an' neeps,' rich with butter and cream, and early peas. She drank a cup of strong tea, tried to stifle a volley of yawns, and then retired to her hard mattress. It didn't matter; she could have slept on a stone fence.
A raucous chorus of crows singing obbligato to a very loud rooster woke her at dawn. She rose, dressed in her dried trousers, a warm jumper and her boots and checked the contents of her rucksack: among other things, a waterproof box of vestas, a compass, a small First Aid kit, a water canteen and a box of biscuits. Oh, and a handful of round pebbles. She tucked her knife into the side of her left boot. Mrs McHattie looked her up and down, sniffed, and slapped a large bowl of porridge onto the table in front of her, stared at her a moment, then brought over sugar and cream. "Ye're goin' out into the moors, lass, ye'll need a good breakfast." The woman brought her a cup of coffee and a rack of toast. Again she stared at Russell. She bent over and whispered, "When I was young I was a wild one, lass. I ran aboot the moors and had me own way, and none to stop me. More power to ye." She patted Russell's hand briefly and then went about her business.
Russell finished her breakfast, put on her jacket and mac and slung her rucksack over her shoulder. "Thanks, Mrs McHattie," she called. "I hope to be back before teatime."
"Mind yerself, now, be careful," said the woman. She thrust a cloth-wrapped package at Russell. "A lunch for ye." Russell thanked her and set out into the misty hills and dales of Ayrshire. She had a map showing local points of interest; although Holmes was largely indifferent to earthworks and the sites of famous battles, he did love to tramp through ancient settlements.
Russell perused the map, and determined to head for a group of small lakes, about five miles outside of the town of Ayr. The sun had not yet pierced the heavy Scottish morning mist, and the ground was spongy-wet from the previous night's rain. Nothing I'm not accustomed to, Russell said to herself. She clapped her cap on her head and set off Eastward. After about half an hour, she was warm, and the sun was peeping through the mist. Birds called, and the sweet smell of meadow-grass rose as the sun fell upon the earth. Russell's spirits rose as well. She loved walking. She stopped and dug in her rucksack until she found the works of the poet Walt Whitman, which was a recently acquired taste. She walked along, carried by the earthy, cheerful tone of Whitman celebrating existence. Soon she was whistling through her teeth, a habit Holmes deplored but a skill she enjoyed.
At about noon she spied a small lake in the distance, at the edge of what looked like quite a dense forest. I don't see any forest on the map, she thought. She found a nice flat rock on which to sit, dug in her rucksack and was soon enjoying her luncheon of coarse, flavourful wheat bread and slices of roast beef. Otters played in the lake; trout leaped. Russell put a crumb of bread on the ground and watched a thrifty beetle take charge of it and roll it off to its burrow. She took off her cap and unpinned her hair, letting it flow down her back. The sun was warm, and a gentle breeze brought her the scent of reeds and wild water lilies.
Rubeus Hagrid carefully lowered his patient, a turtle whose cracked shell had finally healed, into the water. "There ye go, me lad. Mind ye, stay away from the squid. Ye annoyed him once too often last time." He watched the armoured creature swim away, into the thicket of water-lily stems and flat green pads. "Fine day," he remarked to Fang, who lay on his back in the grass, scratching himself lazily. Hagrid was glad of the opportunity to walk out for a bit. He was terribly worried about the influenza that had stricken Hogwarts, even to the Headmaster himself. In particular, he worried about his little friend Hermione. Professor Snape and Mr Holmes had been working the clock around to save her, to bring back the magic, and nothing had worked so far. He shook his head. If only he had been quick enough to get Mr Holmes through the Floo network to Hogsmeade, to reach his friend Dr Watson… Fang sat up, his ears pricked. He tilted his head, looked at Hagrid with a puzzled expression, and whined softly.
"What is it, Fang? What d'ye hear/" Fang stretched fore and aft, then began to walk slowly around the lake shore. He stopped and looked over his shoulder to see if Hagrid was following him. "Ye hear summat, I know it," said the half-giant. He followed the hound and almost stepped upon him, as Fang stopped short, one paw raised in his odd version of "pointing." Hagrid squatted next to him, to sight along the dog's head. That was odd – it had to be a trick of the light. For a moment he thought he saw someone lying on a flat rock about twenty metres away. He blinked: there was nothing there but a shaft of sunlight slanting through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, where it touched the lake shore.
Fang made a peculiar noise, halfway between a grunt and a growl. He took a few steps forward. The sunlight faded behind a cloud, and again Hagrid thought he saw a figure. He squinted. A Muggle lad? Then the sun streamed through again, and the image was gone. Hagrid stood up stiffly. "Come on, Fang. We'll see what there is to see." His heart thudded with fright, but he screwed up his courage, and walked forward. There was nothing on the rock, nothing. It had to be a trick of the light. "Go, Fang," he urged. "Go, have yerself a sniff o'the rock, ye'll see there's nobody there." Fang crouched down onto his belly and refused to move. "Scaredy-dog, are ye?" Hagrid scolded. Boldly, he approached the rock. He sat down on the edge of it. "See? Nothin'!" He looked out towards the centre of the lake. A pink tentacle rose, as if in greeting, then submerged.
The sun felt good on the half-giant's head. He looked over and saw that Fang was no longer squidged against the ground. He had put his nose on his paws and seemed more relaxed than before. "See, Fang, how ye worked yerself up into a swivet for nothin'! Nothin' at all!" He slapped his big, broad hands on his thighs. "Time to head back, Fang," he said. "There's a Ravenclaw class comin' over soon." He stood up; shook himself all around, and almost fainted. There, on the rock, sat a young – person, dressed in Muggle boys' clothing, with a flow of red-blonde hair over his – her – shoulders, and an open-mouthed look of complete astonishment on her face.
A/N:
"Tatties an' neeps" – boiled potatoes and white turnips mashed together with butter and cream and a good dash of pepper.