Chapter 6

 

    The Balbeg Hotel sprawls irregularly on rising ground overlooking the harbour, with beautiful views out towards the mainland. Being not far from the harbour, its grey slate roof had been streaked white by years of seagulls who seemed to enjoy congregating there in the mornings. Once a private dwelling house in Victorian times, its differing uses over the decades as boarding-house, tea-rooms, restaurant and finally hotel, had resulted in extensions being added but with the emphasis on functionality rather than aesthetics. The latest addition of a lounge bar however, had given the building a somewhat more stable appearance and had removed the impression that the whole thing was about to overbalance and slide down the hill into the harbour.
   James Cameron, licensee of five years standing, had taken over the hotel when it was run down and in financial difficulties. Hard work had put the place back on the tourist map and it now enjoyed a wide reputation for excellence of cuisine, courteous service, good beer and restful atmosphere.
   Swords and other clan weapons adorned the walls of the renovated lounge bar, together with pictures of Highland soldiers in regimental dress. In his enthusiasm for effect, Cameron had once pinned four deer hides to the front of his bar counter, and although he had hurriedly reduced the number to three, it had been too late. He detested his new lounge bar being referred to as the fourskin bar.

   The sun was descending into the wings as Jock and Jimmy Thompson parked their hearse outside and made their way into the lounge. Perched on a stool, appreciating the panoramic view of the harbour through the large windows was the only other customer. When the twins strolled up to the bar, their hands in their pockets, he swung round with a big smile.
   Donald O'Hare, teacher of English and Drama in Balbeg's school, considered himself something of a playwright and bard, and he always welcomed company. On this particular evening, he was dressed in an old tweed suit which was clearly uncomfortable in the flamboyant company of a bright red silk tie. An unruly mop of bushy brown hair gave much-needed inches to his height and lent credence to his name. Of an irrepressible nature, ever bubbling over with good humour, he was invariably the centre of lively conversation. At least, when he could find some company that is.
   'Good evening ma friends,' he greeted them warmly. 'And what is it to be?'
   'Just a quick pint tonight, Donald,' said Jock sombrely.
   'What on earth is the matter?' asked O'Hare, motioning for Cameron who was the barman that particular evening. 'You look like you've lost somebody.'
   Neither Jock nor Jimmy appreciated the humour.
   'Hmmm,' mused O'Hare, settling his striking blue eyes on them. He rested an elbow on the bar and waited for an explanation.
   'There is nothing the matter,' responded Jimmy at length, hiding behind a forced smile. 'It has just been a trying day is all.'
   'Ah, of course,' nodded O'Hare knowingly, digging out a pocketful of change to pay Cameron.
   'Yes,' agreed Jock quickly. 'What with delivering a coffin to John Brown and then going to the hospital for Colin, only to find that other arrangements had been made.'
   'Other arrangements?' O'Hare's forehead creased as he leaned forward. 'You don't say? What other arrangements?'
   'He has been cremated,' said Jock quickly, and then pushed his mouth into the creamy head of his pint.
   O'Hare placed his glass on the bar and stared at them incredulously, his mouth agape, but neither Jock nor Jimmy felt inclined to offer any more of an explanation.
   'I must say,' said O'Hare at length, feeling it prudent to change the subject. 'John Brown's approach to life by anticipating his death is really rather odd. I suppose it takes all kinds to make a world, and I suppose it will take all kinds to make the next one too.'
   He frowned when neither of the twins showed any appreciation whatsoever for his humour.
   'I'm sorry,' said Jock eventually. 'I guess we're not very good company this evening.'
   Jimmy took a mouthful of beer and licked his lips, thankful that the conversation had moved on.
   'I suppose John is just an odd character, a little different to everyone else,' continued O'Hare, making an effort to get some sort of conversation going. 'I guess most would simply call him eccentric.'
   Jimmy nudged his brother's arm as he spotted Holmes's car pulling up near their hearse in the car park.
   'Oh f—' hissed Jock under his breath.
   Holmes stooped to avoid banging his head on the lintel when he pushed through the door into the lounge. When he spotted the three men at the bar he made a beeline.
   'Well, well,' he smiled ominously at the Thompsons. 'Just the very lads.'
   'Well, well,' mimicked O'Hare good-naturedly. 'And if it isn't our esteemed law man but in plain clothes. And what will you be having this evening Mr Sherlock?'
   'It's Mr Holmes to you, and I'll haff a haff pint of lager please Donald, and thank you.'
   'Half a half pint?' quipped O'Hare good humouredly, raising an eyebrow.
   'Please,' said Holmes, glancing sideways at each of the twins in turn.
   O'Hare ordered the drink, his smile somewhat lessened as he realised no one was in the mood for humour.
   'You two look like a double hernia, said Holmes, eyeing the twins. 'Is anything the matter?'
   The matter?' asked Jock, feeling a little sick.
   'Hmmmm . . . just what is it you two are up to? You haff both been acting very strangely today.'
   'Ah ma friend,' interjected Donald. 'How could they be up to anything on such a fine day? They are merely experiencing the sadness of lost acquaintance.'
   'Yes,' agreed Jock hurriedly, giving his brother a nudge to drink up.
   Holmes's knees cracked audibly as he bent them slightly.
   'And who is in the coffin in the back of your hearse? Do you usually leave your clients waiting around outside the pub for you?'
   Jimmy spluttered and spilt some of his beer.
   'The coffin is empty,' croaked Jock. 'It . . . it's one we've been working on.'
   'Here you go Bob,' laughed O'Hare handing him his lager. 'I'm sure your geriatric knees will be the better for this.'
   'Cheers,' nodded Holmes.
   'Ah,' sighed O'Hare, staring with awe through the windows at the unspoiled landscape. 'Will you look at that view!'
   'Beautiful and unspoiled indeed,' nodded Jock.
   O'Hare thought a few moments before replying.
   'It's our distance from the political asylum of Westminster that protects us from its withering hand of progress you know.'
   'It's the wives I feel sorry for,' quipped Holmes.
   O'Hare turned in his seat.
   'Their wives?'
   'Yes, they are obviously very poor judges of character.'
   O'Hare laughed just as a group of sombre tourists from the mainland wandered in. While they were ordering their drinks, Jock thought he overheard something about ashes being scattered on Loch Lochan.
   'Donald?' he said hurriedly, his mind panicking. 'What about a touch of your usual inspiration? I could do with being cheered up. Don't you agree Jimmy?'
   His brother had also overheard the conversation in accents not of the island and nodded vigorously.
   O'Hare's eyes lit up and he cleared his throat.
   'Gentlemen, please,' he announced, throwing his arm theatrically. Even the new arrivals stopped talking and turned their attention to him. 'I have just this day,' he continued, producing a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, 'put the finishing touches to a poem about ma friend here.' At this point he indicated to Holmes. 'Who, when he is in a mind to be working, is a protector of our peace and champion of our law and order.'
   Holmes smiled and shook his head.
   When he saw that he had the floor, O'Hare took a sip of his drink, glanced at the first line of the poem and then burst into a recital.

   The Holmes's some while back had a young son called Bob,
   Who applied to the Glasgow police for a job.
   The Holmes's at that time were residing in Skye,
   And young Bob was a big chap, some six-foot-four high.
   But although it was known he was not all that bright,
   He was honest and good, and his health was alright.
   So he landed the job with the Glasgow police,
   And his parents were happy; their minds were at peace.
   It was at Tulliallan he started his course,
   And in no time at all was attached to the force.
   He was put on the night-shift and given a beat,
   Right along Sauchiehall to include the High Street.
   Then with keenness and zeal he set off the first night,
   Checking windows and doors to make sure all were tight.
   And he carefully scrutinised all the hotels,
   But discovered no burglars to drag to the cells.
   At the time he was reaching the end of his beat,
   Did he not come across a dead horse in the street!
   He was taken aback and said, 'What's to be done?'
   Racked his brains for an answer but came up with none.
   'I will have to report this, of that I'm quite sure,'
   As he gathered the evidence, ripe horse manure.
   Just then, his sergeant turned off the High Street,
   To make sure that the new man was covering his beat.
   And he got the worst shock of his varied career,
   When he came upon Bob, with a horse by each ear.
   He was dragging it forward with all his vast strength,
   But when he sighted the sergeant, he measured his length.
   'What on earth are you up to, dragging that horse?
   You're mad,' said the sergeant, 'a disgrace to the force,
   And in all my long years I have never quite seen,
   Such a spectacle as this you've presented to me.'
   Poor Bob was abashed and he hung down his head,
   And he shuffled his feet and he wished he was dead.
   But at last he looked up and said 'Och it's all,
   Because I am thick and can't spell Sauchiehall.'
   The sergeant frowned and thought for a bit,
   Of what he should do with his newly trained twit.
   'I've got it!' he cried, with a slap of his leg.
   'It's the ferry for you to the town of Balbeg.'

   When O'Hare finished, everyone clapped. The tourists were so impressed they ordered a round of drinks for everyone at the bar before retiring to a large table in a corner.
   'One of your better performances,' said Jock, when it had all quietened down.
   'You phallic symbol,' chuckled Holmes. 'You'll haff to give me a copy so I can consider the charges against you.'
   'Aye,' retorted O'Hare. 'Wanted . . . Donald the Bard. When nabbed he will be transported in chains to the mainland to stand trial for maligning the folks there.'
   Jimmy leaned over the counter and waved a twenty pound note at Cameron.
   'Rory will be getting out of hospital tomorrow, will you keep a large one for him? And while you're at it, would you please put a drink in the tap for these two fine gentlemen?'
   'Very kind of you,' smiled O'Hare, pleased at how his evening was shaping up.
   Cameron nodded and took the money.
   'My word!' exclaimed Holmes, looking out through the windows at black clouds gathering on the horizon. 'It looks like rain.'
   And on that note Jock nudged his brother towards the exit and they both headed out under a darkening sky.

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