“We should tell,” Archie whisper-hisses as Isla moves out of earshot.
“No!” My sentiment is echoed by Hugh.
“But how are we going to get it back?” Archie asks plaintively, his arms held wide. “And fixed? I tried to get some glue from school, but I couldn’t!”
“Friend,” I say, reaching for his hand. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t borrow anything else from the classroom. Leave it to me.” And hopefully YouTube.
“But—”
“No,” repeats his elder brother. “Mummy doesn’t need anything else to worry about right now.”
Not to mention he doesn’t need to get into any more trouble. Though, come to think of it, it might be me who’d suffer most. Maybe I’d even be out of a job.
Aiding and abetting? Being a big old liar pants? Setting the children in my charge a bad example? Any of those seems grounds enough for dismissal.
Isla is greeting the dog as we enter a kitchen that’s a hive of activity, and the Dougal of today seems like another person. Dressed in chef whites, he doles out orders like the captain of a ship, though as he catches sight of the boys, he takes time to get down on their level, ruffling their hair.
“What happened to wee Archie?” he asks with astonishment. “Did someone stick you in a grow-bag while I was gone?”
“No, Dougal,” the boy laughs, rapidly shaking his head. “Tell him, Chrissy!”
“Tell him what, my bonny lad?” Chrissy asks from her position of peeling potatoes.
“Tell Dougal I just got bigger!”
“You must be eatin’ your greens,” Dougal replies without waiting for her collaboration. “Put it there,” he then says, turning to Hugh and holding out his hand. The pair shake, each of them wearing a thoroughly contagious grin. “I expect you’ve come to check on afternoon tea?” Dougal straightens, his demeanour and tone cordial but deferential as his attention moves the boy’s mother.
“I’m sure there’s no need for that.”
“All the same,” he says kindly.
“McCain said it was to be served at half past three to give the ghillie sufficient time to get our guests back.”
I wonder if she knows she’s wringing her hands.
“Yes, my lady. And Mari said she saw them comin’ up the north drive about half an hour ago.”
“Then we should be making our way to the . . .” Her anxious gaze falls to Chrissy.
“The blue parlour, my lady.” There’s a note of reassurance in Chrissy’s tone.
“Come along then, boys.”
“But the sausage rolls,” Archie complains.
“They’ll be there,” Dougal reassures. “I’ve prepared a different menu for the wee ones. I’m told there will be two extra children this afternoon.”
“Oh, yes. Mr and Mrs Duffy have two small boys,” she replies, distracted.
“Do they have sausage rolls in America, Holly?”
At Archie’s question, I turn from inspecting the baking tray Chrissy has just pulled from the oven. A baking tray full of perfect little golden puffs of pastry.
“Sadly, we do not.”
“You should go back and open a shop over there. Sausage rolls make everyone happy.”
“That would be a good idea. Except, I’d probably get very fat from eating one too many myself.”
“Sausage rolls are my favourite,” he says with an appreciative sniff as he’s steered out of the kitchen by his mother.
“We’d have snuck them both a wee treat if their mother hadn’t been with them,” Dougal says remorsefully. “But they’ll be eatin’ soon enough, I suppose.”
Mari and the girl referred to as “wee Sophie” appear in the kitchen not long after, both of them dressed in white shirts, black skirts, and hose, and are shortly followed by an austere-looking man in a grey pinstripe pants. A white shirt and a black tie and vest complete the ensemble. I’m guessing by the get-up, this must be the butler, Mr McCain. Or to his employers, no “Mr” required. Just like Madonna. Or Beyoncé. I wonder if his personality is as big.
“Ten minutes,” he announces in a soft brogue. “Mari and Sophie, you’ll be ready.”
The girls nod though his words weren’t issued as a question.
“And you’ll be Holly,” he says, turning to me with a smile. A smile that softens his hard edges and lines makes me wonder if the parentheses bracketing his mouth have been caused by the frequency of his smile or the opposite.
I’ll be Holly. I usually am, though I like to pretend I’m a little more interesting than Holly Harper. Just look at my Instagram! Sometimes, I even get to pretend to be someone else. Someone called Olive.
I shake off the thoughts and hold out my hand.
“Yes, that’s me.” We shake hands, then both turn to watch the final touches being laid to the tea trays. Small, rectangular platters are filled with tiny tarts laden with crème anglaise and fresh raspberries, a lemon iced slice, colourful macarons, and scones with tiny dishes of clotted cream and jam as fingers sandwiches, minus crusts, of course, are laid onto plates with military precision, then decorated with a neat pile of arugula topped with tiny lilac flowers.
“I doubt Hugh and Archie will be excited at the prospect of eating flowers for tea,” Mr McCain murmurs lightly.
“They’ve hankering for sausage rolls.” I turn my head, catching the rise of his brows.
“Much more sensible,” he says with a nod.
“Dinnae fash,” Dougal mutters. “The wee ones have their own menu.” He dips his head in the direction of a two-tiered plate in Mari’s hand. Tiny burger sliders, sausage rolls, a pink and yellow cake chequered cake, which I’m assuming is Battenberg, plus a row of tiny chocolate cupcakes.
“We’d best start moving this lot upstairs.” I take a seat at the kitchen table and watch the military operation commence. Hot water urns, ornate solid silver teapots, serving ware, food; the list goes on and on . . . and then it goes into a rickety-looking dumb server. Meanwhile, I get to stuff my face with sausage rolls. As for Battenberg cake, I can’t even persuade Gertie to take it.
19
Alexander
“How’s school?”
“Boring,” Hugh replies without missing a beat.
“But it’s . . .”
He rolls his eyes dramatically and looks exactly like his mother when he does so. Or at least how she used to look when we were children, living in this monstrous house with only each other for company.
“Necessary,” he mutters sullenly. “Because knowledge is a powerful weapon.”
“Exactly.”
“But sometimes, I’d really just like to stab someone.”
Wouldn’t we all.
“Anyone in particular?” I ask, keeping my tone bland as Hugh rapidly shakes his head.
“I don’t want anyone to die, but I’d really like to kick my art teacher. Hard!”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Uncle Sandy, you can’t go around kicking teachers. It’s just not the done thing.”