Keepsakes from the Cottage by the Loch (Loch Cameron #6)

Chapter 5

FIVE

‘Get everything on the list, an’ if the bakery stall’s no’ there, get the bread from the wee supermarket,’ Dotty instructed, propped up in her bed like a queen. She wore a sage green velvet robe and a long, brushed cotton nightie underneath which was white with a pink flower pattern. Tara could see that the nightie featured long sleeves, because they poked out of the end of her mother’s robe.

‘Okay.’ Tara took the list.

‘There’s shoppin’ bags hangin’ up by the door,’ Dotty continued. ‘If ye need tae make a few trips, it’s no’ far around the market. Just on the high street.’

‘Right.’ Tara nodded. She remembered the food market being around from when she’d visited her mum and dad last year. It hadn’t been there when she’d lived at home, but it had been a good ten years since she’d called Loch Cameron home. ‘So, what else do I need?’ She scanned the list.

‘Butter, loaf cakes – get about five o’ those. Fruit or lemon drizzle. A big cake if there is one, like a carrot cake or a red velvet, aye. Jam needs toppin’ up. Vegetables, salad, a few loaves o’ bread. Milk and meat gets delivered, so that’s a mercy.’ Dotty ticked off the different requirements on her fingers. ‘I usually do some bakin’ fer the guests, so I have tablet or biscuits tae put on their tea trays. Are ye up tae that, d’you think, hen?’ Dotty looked up at her daughter with a frown.

‘I can follow a recipe, Mum.’ Tara rolled her eyes.

‘Fine. My recipe book’s in the kitchen, ye can bring it up when ye get back wi’ the shoppin’ an’ I’ll show ye,’ Dotty sighed. ‘Ach, I hate bein’ laid up.’ She picked up a ball of wool and a square of crochet, then dropped it back on the eiderdown. ‘How anyone fills their days wi’ this kindae thing, I’ll never know.’

‘But you go to the crochet group every week usually, don’t you?’ Tara asked, with some amusement.

‘Aye. But I can walk there, usually,’ Dotty replied, snappishly. ‘An’ it’s mostly just blether an’ cake.’

‘I see.’ Tara smiled.

‘Don’t be cheeky.’ Her mother gave her a sharp look.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Mum.’

Outside, it was a bright day in Loch Cameron, with the sun flashing intermittently from between white clouds. The loch glittered as the light hit it, flickering ever-changing shapes of gold over its surface, as if fairies had strewn a spell on its surface. Tara took in a deep breath of the fresh, clean air: that was something she always missed, living in the city. The air in Loch Cameron felt like pure oxygen: cold and glassy and so clean that you felt a year younger every time you went out for a walk. Tara swore that Loch Cameron was one of those places where the natural environment kept people young and healthy, like that Greek island where the residents all lived to be over a hundred because of their diet of local goat cheese and fish, the sea air and the local water which had some kind of superfood minerals in it .

In Loch Cameron it wasn’t so much the food that was good for you, though it was delicious: Scottish cuisine had never been famous for lending longevity to its consumers. It was the air, the local water, perhaps, and something else. A vibe, a feeling, that Tara got when she came home. Yes, she had reasons for not wanting to be here, but she couldn’t deny the feel of Loch Cameron. It had always been home, and despite what had happened, it had always had a feeling of comfort, steadiness, groundedness and community.

The food market came every couple of weeks now, Dotty had said, and after starting small with a few stalls, it had flourished into a sprawl that stretched the length of the high street. Tara, with Dotty’s shopping bags tucked in her pocket, sauntered through the market, taking in the sights and smells. First, she stopped at The Loch Bakery, a stand whose logo she recognised from the high street, where they had a permanent shop.

‘Morning, dear. What can I do for ye?’ A friendly, middle-aged woman looked up from where she was arranging a basket of Belgian buns: Tara’s mouth watered at the sight of their thick icing and the luscious shiny cherries on the top, even though she’d just had breakfast.

Fat loaves of bread lined the back of a wide table: wholemeal, white, tiger bread with its cracked, crusty exterior and soft inside, wide granary loaves thick with seeds. There was a stack of thick, gooey brownies – some with nuts, some without, some vegan, and a plate of white blondies next to them, dotted with white chocolate chips and macadamias. Tara looked at her shopping list: she’d dutifully scribbled down bread, loaf cakes, big cake , just as Dotty had dictated. Brownies weren’t on the list, but she decided to get a few anyway. If nothing else, she knew her dad loved them.

Individually wrapped fruit loaves were stacked to one side, next to a sign that said PLEASE ASK, WE HAVE BUTTER TO GO WITH THESE.

‘Hi. I’ve got a bit of a list, actually. My mum sent me over from the Inn,’ Tara explained.

‘Ah, Dotty sent ye? You’re her daughter?’ the woman asked, her face lighting up.

‘Yes. I’m Tara,’ she replied a little shyly.

‘Ah, I’ve heard so much about ye!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘I’m Aggie. I run the stall wi’ my husband Bill, but he’s at the shop the now.’

‘Right. Mum’s mentioned you. Hi, Aggie.’ Tara offered her hand, and Aggie shook it. She was perhaps in her early forties, wearing slouchy jeans and a cream sweatshirt emblazoned with the bakery’s logo arranged in the shape of a loaf. She had long hair in a brown plait that reached all the way to her waist: Tara wondered how she managed to get it so long. Perhaps it was all the cake.

In truth, Dotty probably had mentioned Aggie and Bill to Tara at some point, along with a swathe of other local gossip that she unloaded on Tara whenever they spoke on the phone, but Tara had developed the ability to tune most of it out.

‘You’re a teacher, aren’t you? Dotty’s so proud,’ Aggie continued. Tara was surprised; as far as she was aware, Dotty was still put out that she hadn’t followed her dance career.

‘I am. Primary 4’ She nodded; she didn’t see any need to involve Aggie in a years-long dispute between her and her mother – who she had always assumed wasn’t a fan of her teaching.

‘Ah, that’s adorable,’ Aggie cooed. ‘Bill and I never had bairns but I do see the little ones comin’ out of the school most days and I do think, aww,’ she chuckled. ‘Still, I also see the little hoons run their parents ragged when they come in the shop, so…’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway. What can I do ye for?’

Tara read out the list, and Aggie filled a couple of paper carrier bags for her with granary and white loaves, loaf cakes and a large Victoria sponge – it was Tara’s favourite, and she couldn’t help it when she saw it on the cake stand. Dotty had said, one big cake, after all. Tara resisted the cinnamon buns, hot cross buns, lemon Danish, chocolate pastry twists and all manner of savoury treats that Aggie also offered her.

‘If I take it all, you won’t have anything left for anyone else,’ she joked, turning away, already laden with two large bags and the Victoria sponge in a box. The market was busier now, and Tara frowned, thinking that she still had the vegetables and salad to get. She decided to take the bakery haul home first and come back to get the rest and started to retrace her steps to the Inn, balancing the large cake box on one upturned hand as she took both bags in the other.

‘Watch out!’

Tara had re-joined the crowd, but because she was concentrating on holding the cake box steady and because the weight from the two heavy bags was making her arm ache, she didn’t see the man who walking briskly through the crowd until she collided with him.

The man swore. The impact of his body hitting hers – she wasn’t sure if it was his elbow or his shoulder, or the whole side of his torso – was more of a sudden shock than being painful in any way, and it made her cry out. Worse, she felt the cake box falter in her hand. As if it was in slow motion, she reacted, adjusted her grip and trying to right it, but the box fell from her grip.

Tara lunged for it, but it was no use. She was too slow, too clumsy to get it. At the last minute, she screwed up her face in horrified anticipation, waiting for the moment that the cake in its box would hit the ground and be forever smushed. No, no, no! She’d literally just bought the cake and she’d already dropped it. She’d have to go back and get another one.

‘Phew. That was close,’ the same voice said.

Cautiously, Tara opened her eyes. A man stood before her, holding the cake box intact in his hands, and smiling at her.

‘I almost didn’t get it,’ he said, smiling. ‘It was just luck I caught it… oh.’

But when their eyes met, the smile left his face, to be replaced with a look of incredulous shock.

‘Oh, my… Tara?’ he stammered.

It was his voice that did it. He’d changed – grown a beard, filled out. His shoulders were broader, his arms were bigger. He looked like he’d been lifting weights and not dancing. He was ten years older, and there were light creases around his eyes and a few individual grey hairs at his temples. But his voice was the same, and it was the voice she’d known all of her life. It was the voice that had asked him to marry her up on Queen’s Point, all those years ago. It was the voice she’d known before it had deepened into a man’s voice, when he was still a boy. She would have known Ramsay Fraser’s voice anywhere.