I was dripping slightly from places where I didn’t ought to drip and strands of hair were plastered against my face. My nose was running and I wiped it with my arm; oh, very ladylike — not…

Get A Life!

By Susan Brown

Chapter 3

Previously …

Ropes were attached to the bollards on the quay, the gate was opened in front of us and a ramp placed up against the deck with a jarring metal clang.

I let the others go in front of me and I sort of trailed behind.

There were some people on the quay, some with luggage, being passengers about to board, no doubt and a few others probably just being nosy and two other people who I instantly recognised as the Mayor and Mayoress of Muckle.

My courage nearly disserted me as I padded down the ramp, my almost bare feet feeling the strain on the hard, bobbly, metallic ramp. I looked and felt a mess. My jacket and skirt were wet and filthy. My tights had holes in them; my hair felt like it had been dragged through a mangle and as for my face, I probably looked like Coco The Clown.

Oh yes, to cap it all, I had broken a nail.

I could have cried and maybe I should have cried, just to help relieve the pressure cooker of my emotions.

But I didn't cry. We McKerrells are made of strong stuff and I would not give in.

All too soon we reached the bottom of the steps. The back packers left me standing there as they went off in their sensible walking shoes.

In front of me stood Sally and Angus McDougall. They were looking all around as if to see the person that they were waiting for.

I gulped, put on my happy face and walked up to them saying brightly. ‘Hi, I’m Chloe McKerrell.’

And now the story continues…

I was dripping slightly from places where I didn’t ought to drip and strands of hair were plastered against my face. My nose was running and I wiped it with my arm; oh, very ladylike ¬—not.

Talking of faces, I looked at theirs and I realised that I may not have been making a good first impression.

I had done everything possible to look cool, efficient and dare I say it, trá¨s chic, but all that was gone now. I looked like a drowned rat and I wasn’t a very happy bunny.

My stockinged feet felt cold and uncomfortable against the hard concrete of the quay, jetty or whatever the damn thing was called.

I sniffed, wondering in passing if a dose of double pneumonia was coursing through my body due to the dunking and extremes of weather that I had just encountered.

‘Hello,’ said Angus McDougall somewhat doubtfully, ‘erm, are you erm, Chloe?’

I looked at him and he looked at me. I could see that I wasn’t quite what he had been looking for.

So much for me being the calm, collected woman of the world; ready to be cool, efficient and professional and be a force to be reckoned with in the cut-throat world of tourist development.

It was all too much and I burst into tears.

‘Angus, you beast,’ scolded Sally as she rushed up and hugged me.

‘What have I done now?’ asked Angus.

’If you don’t know now, you never will. Go and get the car.’

‘Yes Dear,’ he sighed.

After extensive hugs from Sally and the occasional ‘there, there, there’s,’ from her, I soon calmed down.

After the judicial use of several tissues in the Ladies, I was able de-raccoon my face a bit and look, more or less, human again. I scrunchied my hair so that I didn’t look quite like it had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

I still looked a mess, just less of one and I couldn’t wait to have a shower and change of clothes, but that was on hold. Luckily I had some sandals in my shoulder bag that I had forgotten about and I with a sigh, I slipped my feet into them. At least I could now walk about now with being crippled.

I had been told that I would be going back to Sally and Angus’s home for a wee bite to eat first. ‘Maybe,’ I thought, ‘I can change properly there.’

To save the car upholstery, I sat in the back of the car on a car rug that smelt suspiciously of dog.

Angus drove and Sally was in the front with him.

No one spoke and I thought that I understood why. I had a feeling that I was not what they were after. I mean, what sort of idiot gets themselves soaked through; loose their best pair of shoes in the sea and presented themselves for inspection looking like a refugee from a shipwreck?

To take my mind off my woes, I looked out of the window at the scenery going by; well it was us going by, not the scenery, as it stayed put, but you know what I mean.

We soon left the quay and the scene of my humiliation and proceed up a hill. To my left, I could see the sheltered bay and the ship moored at the jetty. It occurred to me that no cars had gotten off the ship when we were parked - sorry moored there. I didn’t notice it at the time as I had other things to think of, but the large stern doors had not opened and even now, as I looked down, the ship looked like it was making ready to leave for its next port of call.

So, only a few passengers had left when I did and no cars came off. This was hardly the thriving holiday destination that I had wished for. Still, maybe that was why I was here. I was to improve things for the tourist industry. An industry that looked to me as if it were non-existent. Whether I would still have the opportunity to improve things after my performance so far today, was a mute point…

The main street on the hill seemed to comprise of a few shops and several pubs. I wondered in passing if there was enough trade for so many drinking establishments, but knew that the Scots were known to like the occasional drink. Indeed my mother told me on a number of occasions that Granddad liked a few wee drams himself and could drink anyone under the table.

Muckle seemed to be in a bit of a time warp and I think that if I had visited the place in the 1950’s things would have looked very much the same. Most of the cars, of which there were few, looked a bit ancient and the bus parked at the bus stop, was out of a bygone age.

There were some people about, but it wasn’t the hive of activity that I would expect at that time of day. There were men standing outside the pubs gossiping and drinking beer, whisky or both.

Occasional knots of women of various ages were on street corners in little groups, presumably passing the time of day. I didn’t see any children about apart from a few tiny ones and assumed that older ones were all in school. There was a junior school on the outskirts of town, according to my internet enquiries. Senior school children evidently used the ferry and went over to Lamlash on the Isle of Arran, which must have been a bit of a drag. I had no idea what they would do if the ferry was cancelled for any reason; home school, I supposed.

We were soon at the top of the hill and passed a small kirk and churchyard. In the distance, I could see the rolling hills, dotted with fluffy bits that I took for sheep. Overlooking everything was one seriously impressive mountain that stood, almost central on the island, all rugged and almost menacing. It was known as Beinn Uaibhreachd and still had snow at the top and the mists rolled around the crags and crevices giving it an almost mystical look to it. I would hate to be stuck up there when the weather got bad.

I shook my head. The last thing I needed was more thoughts of the negative variety. I was more the glass half full rather than empty type of person and I had to try to be positive. I had had lots of setbacks in my life and that had to stop. I refused to allow myself to think that I would be anything other than successful working in Muckle, if I got the chance.

I looked at my broken nail and for some reason that upset me more than it should. I was always careful to have my nails at exactly the same length as I was heavily into symmetry...

I was so anally retentive at that moment, that I jumped as Sally spoke.

‘Do you like it here?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I squeaked, ‘it’s lovely.’

It was true it was lovely. Every time we turned a corner I could see a photo opportunity and my fertile brain was trying to work out angles to advertise the island.

I had a picture in my minds eye...

A woman in a long white flowing dress, her hair flying in the summer breeze running in slow motion towards a rugged, yet handsome man with arms stretched out. Behind them, a wild horse gallops through the surf, water flying high in the air. To the side, the breath-taking beauty of Muckle. The man and women run in to each other’s arms and kiss passionately.

Muckle, a place where dreams are made and memories last…forever.

I sighed; I was a bit of a romantic really.

I could not understand why this gem of a place wasn’t swarming with tourists. The hills and valley’s, streams, rivers and babbling brooks were all lovely and picturesque. As we went, I saw glimpses of golden sandy beaches, bays and inlets. It was a dream of a place.

The warmth was fuelled by the jet stream and according to good old Wiki, the lower than normal rainfall was a bit of a mystery or a quirk of nature. There were even some palm trees dotted abut, giving the place an almost Caribbean feel to it.

The island, as far as I could see, would be an ideal place for people of all ages to come and enjoy. Families would enjoy the beaches and walking in the hills and valleys and even sporty types could walk, run, cycle and even, if they were skilled enough, climb the mountain.

I was in a dream world and it took a few seconds to realise that we had turned off the main road (lane really) and into a narrower one that led up to a pretty two-story cottage.

It was your typical vine covered country cottage with chocolate box garden and views over the valley to the sea.

‘This is lovely,’ I said enthusiastically as we pulled up to the garden gate.

‘Yes it is dear,’ said Sally, getting out, ‘see you later Angus.’

Angus turned to me as made to get out of the car.

‘I have to go back to town on business; I’ll see you later. Sorry about earlier. I did something wrong evidently.’

‘That’s all right.’ I said, raising a smile.

He sighed.

‘I’ll never understand women,’ he said ruefully.

‘Do you include me in that?’ I asked.

He frowned and said, ‘of course. Is that a trick question?’

I laughed.

‘No.’

‘That’s good. No matter what you were born as, I think that you are very pretty and far too lovely to have ever been a boy. Don’t worry about your job. I can see that you might feel like you didn’t make a good impression on the quay, but, if anything, you showed some balls…’

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh God, sorry, I mean spunk…Oh bugger, I’ve done it again. Look I’m not very P.C. and occasionally put my foot in it up to my neck, but I mean well and as I say, you are a lovely girl with a shining personality. How anyone could come off that ship in the shape you was in and smile and say “hi I’m Chloe,” shows that you are made of strong stuff and that is exactly what the job needs…’

I went all gooey inside and felt tears trickle down my face.

‘Oh God, don’t cry, I’ll get the blame.’

I giggled at that. I was getting good at giggling. There was a Google app online that helped teach me and I passed the test with flying colours. I had just signed up for another course in how to pout and sulk effectively — but that’s another story.

‘See you later,’ I said.

‘Bye.’

I gave a little wave as he turned the car around and went off.

Just then I felt something wet and cold go up my skirt and sniff my knickers.

You must understand that I was a little bit fragile at that moment. I had been through hell and back and now I was being attacked from below by person or persons unknown.

I screamed and jumped about three feet in the air.

‘Hamish, you naughty boy, how many times have I told you…’

I looked down and there he was…a dog; a big dog; a big shaggy dog; a big shaggy dog that was trying to look innocent and failing miserably.

He was looking up at me panting, with tail wagging like a windmill on steroids. He didn’t look very sorry at his social faux pas.

‘Bad boy.’ I said adjusting my skirt.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Sally coming up to me, ‘he has the manners of a pig.’

‘I think that you might be insulting pigs there.’ I said.

We both giggled. Maybe she had been on the same online course as me?

I followed Sally into the house with my case and other bits and pieces.

‘Do you want to pop upstairs and have a shower and change of clothes. It might make you feel a bit better.’

‘Yes please ‘ I said gratefully.

It was nice to take off my clothes. I think the skirt was a write-off, as was the jacket, but the blouse was relatively unscathed and I had hopes of resuscitation when I had the time and patience to get it cleaned.

Soon I was luxuriating in the shower, with hot water washing my yuckieness away.

I sang as I showered. I did that a lot and I realise how sad that sounds. I had had lessons in speech to make my voice sound more feminine and the teacher said that singing helps. I wasn’t going to argue with her.

If a bubble bath isn’t available, you can’t beat a good shower using Lush Snow Fairy shower gel. The candy smell just cheers me up. All right, I might be a little old for it, but I missed out on my girly childhood and any excuse to wallow in this sort of thing was fine by me.

As the water cascaded down me, I pushed back my unwanted appendage between my legs and tried to imagine what it would be like without the thing swinging between my legs like a minute elephant trunk.

It worked for me.

I sighed; if I could only get over my squeamishness over having the surgery…

I washed my hair several times to rid it of seagull poo and then used industrial strength hair conditioner to make it go all soft and silky.

Soon I felt like a new woman as I dressed in clean panties. Next, my small, but growing breasts were nestled comfortably in my cross your heart padded bra (for those girls who needed just that bit of extra help). Then I slipped on a white eyelet peasant blouse and matching calf length skirt. It wasn’t exactly power dressing, but they looked pretty and were functional. I didn’t bother with tights, as it was still warm so, sitting on a chair I put on my sandals, pleased that my toenails still looked nicely painted in coral pink and not ravaged by the mishaps I had endured on and off the ship.

I had already found out that I would be having a bite to eat with the McDougall’s and then they would show me the cottage that had been found for me. One of the reasons why I accepted the post was the fact that it came with accommodation and transport. I was looking forward to seeing my new home and the car, but was too shy to ask about what I would be getting. I wanted to make a good impression and didn’t want them to think that I was only in the job for the perks.

I expected the accommodation to be a little flat or apartment and the car, a small run-around, which was okay by me.

I dried my hair with the hairdryer from my case. It wasn’t running very well, if anything rather slowly without much heat being generated, as if not much power was getting to it. I wondered if the electricity was a bit iffy there.

Eventually, my hair was dry and I brushed it out. I liked my hair, I was a natural blond and I had been growing it out for some time now and it was down to my shoulders. It was fine and dead straight with not a kink in sight. It needed a cut as I noticed a few split ends. I hoped that the island ran to a decent salon and tied a mental knot in my mind to ask Sally where the best place to go was.

Judging by the number of shops and lack of even a Tesco Extra local supermarket, I wondered how people managed to get bare essentials like ready-made meals, curries and pizzas, not forgetting clothes, jewellery and makeup. Maybe there was a shopping centre somewhere, hidden away and full of those things that make life bearable like McDonalds, Costa, Next and the all-important salon.

I applied some makeup, using the less is best technique. I was lucky enough not to have too many nooks and crannies on my face and it all helped me to look nice and not to need to trowel the foundation on. It took just a few minutes to make my eyes look smoky and interesting and my lips, pink and kissable. I was quite good at doing my own makeup and I was soon looking in a lot better shape than when I arrived.

It might sound as if I was full of sh…I mean full of it, regarding my looks. Well, as I have already said, I try to be positive and after years of doubt, my shrink finally got through to me and told me in no uncertain terms that I was pretty and putting myself down was detrimental to my health and well being.

Even in my office at Timpson’s, some people said, not too flattering really, that I was too pretty to be a boy. It was nice to hear that I was pretty when presenting as a girl, but when I was trying my hardest to blend in and pretending to be a manly man, it was, to say the least, a wee bit uncomfortable.

So now I accepted that I was nice looking and showed no outward signs of manliness, I embraced it and got on with life. That didn’t mean that I had the occasional time when I doubted myself; that was natural, but I kept a lid on it and made sure that I kept any negative thoughts deep, deep in my subconscious.

Looking at my watch, I realised that I had been nearly two hours. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? After a quick spritz, so I would smell as sweet as my nature, I was ready. I still needed some emergency surgery on my damaged fingernail, but that would just have to wait.

As I went downstairs, I wondered at the lack of children. Then I remembered that Sally said that they were both on a school camping trip and were not expected back until Sunday night.

I could smell cooking type smells and went into the kitchen. Sally looked up from the pot she was stirring and said, ‘feeling better?’

‘Yes thanks.’

‘You look pretty.’

‘A bit better than earlier.’

We both laughed.

‘Can I do anything?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s all in hand. The master of the house should be back soon and then we can eat.’

I had a distinct feeling that I was actually looking at the master, or rather mistress of the house, but being diplomatic, I said nothing.

Hamish the dog was lying on the floor by the cooker, looking up expectantly, with tail twitching slightly. I think that he may have been hoping and wishing that some of the yummy smelling food might accidently drop to the floor and then he could help clean it up; but I think that it was just wishful thinking on his part.

Just then, his ears pricked up and he got up, stretched, yawned and then sauntered out of the kitchen.

I turned to the window as I heard the sound of a car approaching.

‘That would be Angus,’ said Sally, ‘he must have smelt the cooking.’

It did smell nice and if I wasn’t mistaken, it was some sort of beef stew. My mouth was watering in anticipation. I wasn’t one of those size zero types, who ate a lettuce leaf for dinner and looked like a stick insect. I was lucky enough to have a body that didn’t gain weight at the sight of a sticky bun, but I did have a bit of meat on me and was a size 12 in my stockinged feet, depending on which clothes shop I go to.

There was some barking as Hamish greeted his daddy.

Angus came in with a briefcase in hand.

‘Hello girls,’ he said going over to Sally and pecking her on the cheek.

‘My, that smells nice,’ he said sticking his finger in the pot and then saying, ‘ouch,’ as Sally hit his hand with a ladle.

He turned to me and said, ‘my, you look a pretty picture,’

I blushed slightly.

‘Don’t I look pretty?’ asked Sally as she fingered her ladle in a threatening manner.

‘Of course dear, you are, as always, lovely.’

‘Well stop gawping at us and go and lay the table.’

‘Yes dear,’ he sighed and then with a wink at me, he went out with Hamish padding behind.

A few minutes later we were sitting around the table and tucking into a wonderful beef stew. The meat melted in my mouth and the flavours were almost obscenely gorgeous. We had some red wine, Rioja I think, and it went very well with the stew and dumplings.

I nearly dropped my fork as Hamish found his way beneath my skirt again.

‘Eak!’

‘Hamish, get out of there,’ said Sally sternly, ‘sorry about that, he has some funny ways.’

Hamish came out from under the table and pretended to look innocent and as if butter wouldn’t melt in his slobbering mouth.

‘That’s all right,’ I said, ‘he’s an, erm, interesting dog,’

‘He’s a pearvert,’ said Angus, ‘he goes after anything with legs. The postman refuses to deliver and the local cats have made this place a no go zone. I think that he’s not right in his head. He’s had his bits cut off, so he shouldn’t be like that…’

‘Angus, we don’t speak of such things at the table,’ she looked at me apologetically.

I smiled wondering if Angus had just had another faux pas moment and not realised it. I wanted my bits cut off, well altered anyway and maybe, some day, I would have the courage to do it.

As we ate, we discussed the island and what part I played in its promotion.

‘The last lady who had the job wasn’t much good. She was a friend of a friend of a friend and we hoped that she was up to it, but she was a bit sex mad and went after all the eligible men,’ said Angus sipping his wine. ‘This meant that she wasn’t exactly focussed on the job in hand. She was the fifth person in three years to have the job since we took over as Mayor and Mayoress.’

‘Not many people got off the ferry when I did.’ I said, wondering if the job was a bit of a poisoned challis.

‘You see the problem. We need to get people out here. It’s a lovely island and we have to get the message out,’ said Sally.

‘We have a problem though,’ continued Angus, ‘we don’t have much money to spare for tourism. We are being squeezed dry by Holyrood and Inverness and they don’t seem to realise that the economy would benefit in this area with an infusion of funds to help promote us.’

‘So do I have a budget?’

‘At the moment, not much. We have asked for emergency cash and also some E.U. funding, but we don’t know if and when that will come. For now, you will need to be creative and make the best of it. What you need to do is have a look around, get some ideas and then get us on the map.’

‘Well, the first thing we need is a decent web site.’

‘What’s wrong with the one we’ve got?’ asked Sally.

I looked at her pityingly.

‘To be honest, its amateurish, almost like it was done by a ten year old without much skill…what?’

‘Erm,’ said Angus, ‘our son did it, he’s twelve.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

He sighed. ‘Don’t worry; we brought you in to sort this sort of thing out. I hope that you can make improvements.’

‘I’ll do what I can. I’ve dabbled with a couple of websites before, but we need it to look professional and so we may have to spend some money on web design from someone outside. I’ll get some figures together and get back to you.’

We continued our meal and the general consensus was that I would report back to them in a few weeks with my findings.

My office would be a small one in the council chamber and I was to go and have a look the next day. Today was the day for getting my accommodation sorted out.

After the meal, the dishes were left to soak and we made our way back to the car. I had thought that we would return to the town as I assumed that there would be accommodation there. I was wrong; as Angus explained.

‘It’s no good being in the centre of town; you need to be nearer the places where tourists will go. You will be in town when you visit your office, but the last thing you want is to work and live in the same place.’

I kind of agreed with that and after all they knew the local layout better than I did so I would obviously concur.

We went up and down lanes, past some nice picnic spots, over narrow bridges with streams flowing under; through a few ford and around some rather large hills, overlooked at all times by Beinn Uaibhreachd in the distance. Being a small island, you are never far away from the sea and I often caught glimpses of it on our journey.

I wondered where we were going and the McDougall’s were rather reticent about giving me any details about what would be my home for the foreseeable future. We climbed a hill and below was a nice sheltered bay. I surmised that we were on the other side of the island from where Halestead, the one and only town was.

We turned a corner and screeched to a halt as two mallard ducks and their brood of seven ducklings confronted us. They were crossing the lane in strict formation and were not in too much of a hurry to do it.

Angus bibbed his horn and Sally and I turned on him.

‘Don’t be so horrible.’ said Sally.

‘Poor little ducks,’ I said, ‘aren’t they sweet.’

‘We haven’t got all day,’ said Angus, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers as the final duckling waddled past and into the safety of a hedge.

‘I thought that this was an island where you can be laid back and relaxed?’ I asked innocently.

‘Not when I’m due at the pub for a darts match,’ retorted Angus.

Sally turned to look at me, her eyes heavenward.

‘Men and their silly games eh?’

‘There is nothing silly about darts,’ said Angus as he crashed the gears and continued on.

‘Yes dear, keep your eyes on the road. We don’t want you killing any defenceless wildlife do we.’

He mumbled something that I couldn’t catch, but sounded vaguely like a swear word.

We carried on up the hill and then on the brow, we stooped for a moment to drink in the beauty of the scenery.

Down below, I could see the full expanse of a bay, its golden sandy beach and deep blue sea lapping on the shore. On the hillside were a few cottages dotted about, with trees, bushes, wild plants that had a variety of lovely colours, as far as the eye could see.

Looking at the sea, there were several small islands or islets dotted about, as if dropped there by some giant unseen hand. It was all very pretty and I just knew that I would have to start taking photographs for the website. Places like these are hard to find even in the UK.

‘Wow,’ I said.

‘Yes, its lovely isn’t it,’ said Sally, smiling.

‘Lets get going then,’ said the no nonsense Angus. I thought that the call of the darts match must have been pretty strong for him to want to leave that wonderful place.

We went down the lane and it was fairly steep in places, but eventually we ended up at the shoreline. The road followed the beach for about a quarter of a mile. The sun was streaming in the windows. It would not have been hard to imagine being on a lush Caribbean island and the fact that this was Bonny Scotland was almost unreal.

The road ended abruptly and literally turned into sand.

‘We’re here,’ said Sally.

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Your new home.’

‘Erm,’

I looked around; all I could see was sand sea and the hills. Was I expected to live on the beach?

‘Come on,’ said Sally, ‘let me show you. Angus, you can go now. We’ll make our own way back. Don’t drink and drive.’

‘If you insist,’

‘I do,’

Sally and I got out of the car and it was then that I saw a path leading away from the beach and around the side of a hill.

With a wave, Angus went off to the pub. Then I remembered that my bags were in the car. Also, I wasn’t sure how Sally would get back home and then I realised that my new car would probably be available at the accommodation and I could give her a lift back and collect my stuff at the same time.

Following Sally, I wondered what sort of magical mystery tour I was being taken on.

The path was well worn and not overgrown, thank goodness, and I easily kept up with Sally as she kept up a fast pace.

We must have walked about a hundred yards and then we came back out into the open again and there was another wide stretch of beach. If this was on the mainland, the white, fine powdery beach would be packed with holidaymakers. The sun was strong and I was almost blinded by it, as the glare hit my eyes.

Then the sun went behind a cloud and I could see properly again. At the back of the beach was a cottage and bizarrely, several palm trees!

The cottage had originally been painted white, but had seen better days and the walls looked a bit shabby in places. It was sorely in need of a lick of paint and the door and windows were peeling. There was no garden, as such, just a small patch of overgrown grass leading to a gate that went out onto the beach.

‘Here it is,’ said Sally, ‘what do you think?’

‘It’s lovely and the location is wonderful.’ I said doubtfully. I wondered what it was like inside. The spot was ideal and one to dream about, but I wasn’t so sure about the run down look of the cottage.

We walked up the short path with Sally leading the way.

The door wasn’t locked and Sally pushed it open.

A dozen rabbits ran out and headed for the hills. Then I could hear a bleating sound.

You guessed it, a sheep.

I followed Sally, who didn’t appear in the least bit concerned about the abundance of wildlife in the cottage.

I found myself in a hallway with three doors. The bleating was coming from behind one of the doors. Sally strode over and opened the door. I bravely followed her, using her body as a shield. Where was Angus when we needed him? I peered over Sally’s shoulder. In the middle of the room, a sheep with hay in her mouth looked up with casual interest.

‘Bloody Finlay Cameron, I’ll kill him.’

‘Erm, who’s Finlay Cameron?’

‘A farmer who thinks he owns this place. He doesn’t; the council owns it. He stopped paying rent in 1994 and wondered why we evicted him. He said that he has “rights”, well he doesn’t. If he thinks leaving a sheep in here gives him squatters rights, then he is sadly mistaken.’

With an ease of someone who knew how to deal with sheep, she ushered the quadrupedal, ruminant mammal out of the cottage while I was left to have a look around.

The place was a mess, with droppings of various animals littering the floor and also on the rather iffy looking settee that probably looked nice in the 1950’s but now just looked like a wreck. The table and chairs were plain pine affairs, covered in something unmentionable and it was obvious that the furniture had not been bought from Ikea, more likely being picked up from a rubbish dump.

The walls were covered with what looked like white wash but would be more accurately described as grey wash.

There were patches of damp on the brown and black stained carpet, which, I suspected, wasn’t water.

Then there was the smell, it was an animal smell and it wasn’t very nice to my sensitive nose. I went over to a door and opened it and then screamed as several bats flew out, started to circle the room and proceeded to dive-bomb me.

I had had enough. I was as brave as the next person, but I had my limits. It felt like I had wondered onto the set of Hitchcock’s The Birds. All right they were bats rather than birds, but still, you get the point.

I ran out screaming.

The bats followed me and then thankfully ignored me and flew off, up and then over the nearest hill.

Breathing in gasps, with sweat — sorry perspiration, pouring off me and overwhelming my anti p, I was just pleased to get out of there alive. I fully expected a black bear or something hiding in the broom closet and adders under the bed. To say that I was traumatised would be an understatement.

Sally had tied the sheep to a tree and the sheep, finding plenty of grass to nibble at, seemed quite happy. She— Sally that is, not the sheep— looked up at me and smiled.

‘There you are. So what do you think of the place?’

‘What do I think of the place?’

‘Mmm.’

‘There was a sheep in there.’

‘Yes, I’ll have a word with Finlay about that.’

‘And bats.’

‘Yes, the bats are a bit of a nuisance. They are protected you know, we can’t go around shooting them. Once all the holes are filled up and the windows re-glazed, they won’t be able to come back.

‘I can’t live there.’

‘Why not?’

‘I…I…it’s not liveable and I bet there are mice, rats, spiders, adders and other things in there too and then there’s all the mess; shi…I mean poo and wee and other things that look a bit mouldy.’

‘There probably are, so what’s the problem?’

‘Is she nuts, does she have a screw loose?’ I wondered

‘Sally I can’t live there.’

Sally turned to me frowning.

Had I blown it? Was I not made of the right stuff? Maybe this was a test to see if I could handle adversity or something.

On balance, I think that adversity sucks.

She giggled.

‘She is nuts.’

She came over and I stepped back, I contemplated going back into the cottage and slamming the door on her. Then my over-heated imagination took over and I could see in my minds eye, her smashing the door in with an axe and shouting ‘here’s Janie!’

‘Chloe, did you think that I would let you live here while it was in this condition?’

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I just wanted to show you the cottage and if you like it, I would have had it cleaned up, redecorated and made ship shape. It might appear to be isolated here, but we brought you here via the scenic route.

‘At the back is the service road and the village of Peploe is just over the hill, about two hundred yards from where we are standing. You have mains water, drainage, electricity and a phone line so you don’t have to worry about a thing. We have booked you in at Ma McTavish’s B&B in Peploe for a wee while and until everything can be sorted out.’

‘Oh.’ I said, feeling a bit foolish.

‘Oh, come here, hen,’

She opened her arms.

We embraced and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. One good thing about being a woman is that you can just let yourself go.

After recovering somewhat, I broached the other subject.

‘Erm, you mentioned transport?’

‘Oh yes, come around the back.’

We went along a sandy path and through a gate. I wondered what sort of car it would be, a Mini perhaps or some hot hatchback. A BMW was probably asking for too much…

I looked up and down the service road and couldn’t see a car anywhere. Maybe Angus had gone to fetch it and we’d have to wait for a bit…

Sally went over to a wooden shed that seemed to be in fairly good shape, compared to the cottage, and opened the door.

She beckoned me over and she stood aside.

‘What do you think?’

It was a very pink Vespa scooter. Sitting on the seat was a very pink helmet.

---

 
To Be Continued...

Well readers,Chloe has seen more of the island. Will she be able to cope with the sheep, bats, quirky islanders and a pink vespa? Tune in next time and see!

Please leave comments and kudos if you can manage it. Many thanks for the for the virtual chocolate cake and Merlot (the real stuff tastes nicer though)...and thanks for all the kind comments and PM's!