—
On the seventh day, when Rhona began assembling game pies, I realized Angus was reopening the inn.
I didn’t see how he could. Even if Rhona prepared all the food, Meg was weeks away from being able to carry trays, and Rhona was simply too frail. Angus couldn’t possibly serve and clear tables as well as tend bar.
When I came downstairs, he had the front door propped open and was taking down the sign, collecting the tacks between his lips.
“Is everything all right?” he mumbled, glancing at me.
“Yes. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to ask something.”
“Ask away.”
“I notice you’re reopening the inn, and I wondered if I could help. It’s too much for one person, and Meg says she’ll be all right on her own for a few hours, as long as I leave her with a book.”
Angus spat the tacks into his hand and shut the door.
“And what do you think your husband would make of that?”
“He’d hate it. In fact, he’d forbid it. But he’s out of town.”
“I had actually noticed that,” he said with a quick laugh. “But for how long?”
“I’m really not sure,” I said. “I thought he’d be back a few days ago.”
“And if he were to come back and find you behind the bar?”
“There would be a scene, but I’m afraid that would be the least of my worries.”
Angus dropped the tacks onto the nearest table and looked at me.
“Maddie, is there something I should know? Because I can’t help if I don’t know.”
I wanted to tell him, but there was nothing he could do.
There was a long silence as Angus continued to stare at me, his hands on his hips, his expression stern.
“It’s complicated,” I finally said, “and when it comes right down to it, I don’t think anyone can help me.”
“You’re sure, are you?”
I nodded and said, “I’m pretty sure, and in the meantime, I’m trying not to think about it. So what do you say? Can I distract myself by helping with the dinner service?”
“I’d be grateful for the help,” he said, his voice still serious. “And if you change your mind and want to tell me what’s going on, you know where to find me.”
—
A few minutes before six, when I was expected downstairs, I paused at Meg’s door. I’d helped her move to the chair a little earlier, when she’d decided to read. Apparently sitting ramrod straight was more comfortable than being propped up in bed.
“I’m going down now. Do you want me to get you anything first? Touch up your tea, or move you back to the bed?”
She looked at me over the spine of Died in the Wool, then set it facedown in her lap.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“It was,” I said, glancing down at myself. I was in a navy blue dress that I hoped would be forgiving of stains, and shoes that were low enough that I probably wouldn’t trip.
She tsked and frowned. “You look like you’ve come from a funeral, for goodness’ sake! You’re supposed to lighten their mood, not darken it—change into something more appropriate, and then come back.”
“But they’ll start arriving any minute,” I protested.
“Angus can pull pints while you make yourself presentable,” she said firmly. “At least you’ve done your hair and makeup,” she added in a mutter, returning to her book.
I stood in front of my closet and considered my options. I picked out a periwinkle rayon dress with a pleated skirt and matching belt, and a pair of shoes whose heels were high enough to lengthen my calves, but that I hoped would not hinder my balance or speed.
Moments later, I stood in Meg’s doorway with my hands on my hips.
“Will I do?” I asked.
I meant it rhetorically, but she ran a critical eye over the whole of me, from my hair to my toes and back again.
“Turn around,” she said, stirring a finger in the air.
I obliged, even as I heard the first customers arrive.
“The lines up your legs are a little crooked,” she said. “But otherwise, you’ll do nicely.”
—
Although I had visions of china crashing to the floor and dinners sliding into laps, I was not a complete disaster. It was certainly awkward: everyone who came in was clearly taken aback at finding me behind the counter. I’m not sure they quite realized what was going on until they saw Angus tutor me on pulling pints and measuring drams, and I was the one to deliver them. In the moments between orders, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, or even where to look. I felt like I’d been thrown naked onstage and forgotten all my lines.
When the curious and mischievous among them began placing orders with me directly, they addressed me as Mrs. Hyde, even though Angus was openly calling me Maddie. It was a strange night for names all around, because when the lumberjacks finally began to trickle in—they usually arrived in a raucous crowd—they were subdued and addressed Angus consistently as either Captain Grant or Sir. I thought they must be testing the waters, to see if they were still welcome.
Willie the Postie was the only one to make a direct comment. He came to a dead stop just inside the door when he saw me. Then he marched up to the bar.
“What’s this, then?” he said, looking me up and down. “Are my eyes deceiving me?”
“What’ll it be then, Willie?” said Angus, ignoring the question. “The usual?”
“Aye,” Willie said, continuing to eye me suspiciously.
—
I got so that I could pull a pint without half of it being foam, and tried to remember what Meg did when there was a lull. I topped up the water pitchers, took empty glasses back to the kitchen, and wiped the bar until my wrists ached, but what Meg did that I couldn’t was chat and flirt and anticipate orders.
There was not a single local who didn’t ask after her, although they did it individually and discreetly. It was clear they knew what had happened, although Rory’s name was never spoken. Angus simply said that while she was improving, she was still feeling poorly, and that he’d pass along their good wishes. To a one, they responded with serious nods and expressions that underscored a wordless rage.
The lumberjacks did not ask, and their discomfort increased as the night wore on. It seemed to me they were trying to figure out if they should leave, and probably would have been relieved to do just that.
Conall was at his usual place by the fire, and by his hopeful look I realized he expected me to join him. His eyes followed me wherever I went, and over the course of the evening—when it finally dawned on him that I wasn’t coming to sneak him bits of my dinner—he lost faith and dropped his head on the stones. It was all I could do to not take him a little something. We had a pact, and I felt terrible about breaking it.
When all the tables and stools were occupied, and I was running back and forth between the front room and the kitchen, the hours began to fly. Before I knew it, everyone had eaten, I’d cleared the tables, and hadn’t broken anything. I’d spilled just two drinks, and only one of them had landed on a customer—the piper, Ian Mackintosh, who was entirely gracious about it.
When nine o’clock rolled around, and Angus tuned the wireless to the nightly broadcast, I paused in the doorway to listen.
The Red Army was drawing ever closer to Berlin, and had cut railway lines and roads that led to the city. Dresden may have already been reduced to rubble, but the Allied Forces continued to bomb Germany “night and day,” in the words of the announcer. British troops had taken Ramree, an island in Burma, and an important battle had begun on Iwo Jima, an island close to mainland Japan.
I slipped away before I could hear the number of casualties.
Rhona had the dishes stacked next to the sink, and I stood beside her to help. She seemed to have shrunk over the course of the evening, and was moving even more slowly than usual. If we’d shared a language, I’d have suggested that she rest her feet and let me do the dishes.
Conall had slipped in behind us, and when the last plate was washed, he heaved a heartbroken sigh and collapsed by Angus’s bed, as though my cruelty had deprived him of the energy to even jump up.
If I’d done the dishes on my own, I would have let him lick a few.