Again, Kitty did not reply, unsure whether it was a compliment or an insult.
‘I went to Germany once,’ he said, breaking another silence. ‘So far, it’s my only trip to Europe. I found it cold, dark and rather dull. Australia may have its problems, but at least the sun shines here and everything about it is dramatic. Can you cope with a little drama, Miss McBride?’
‘Perhaps,’ she replied neutrally.
‘Then you will do well in Australia, because it isn’t for the faint-hearted. Or at least, outside the city boundaries it isn’t,’ he added as he pulled the pony and cart to a halt. ‘This is King William Street.’ He indicated a street lined with shops, their frontages painted in bright colours, with gleaming signs advertising their wares. ‘It’s as civilised as it gets. I will drop you here on Beehive Corner, and collect you in two hours at one o’clock prompt. Does that suit you?’
‘It suits me very well, thank you.’
Drummond dismounted from the cart and offered Kitty his hand to help her down. ‘Now, go and do what you ladies seem to enjoy best, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll take you off to see Father Christmas on Rundle Street later. G’day.’ Drummond winked at her as he climbed back onto the cart.
Kitty stood there in the dusty street watching the carriages, the horse-drawn carts and the ponies which bore men with wide-brimmed hats. Looking up, she saw what Drummond had referred to as ‘Beehive Corner’ – a beautiful red and white building with arches and finials, topped off with a delicately painted bee. Confident she would find it again, she walked along the street, peering through the windows. Now perspiring profusely in the heat, she came across a haberdashery shop and entered to peruse the surprisingly large selection of ribbons and laces on offer. It was, if that was possible, even hotter inside the shop than out. Feeling the sweat dripping down the back of her neck, she bought a yard of lace for both Mrs McCrombie and Mrs Mercer, and some white cotton fabric for the men, thinking that she could fashion it into handkerchiefs and stitch Scottish thistles into the corners.
She paid and left the oppressive fug of the shop before she disgraced herself and fainted right then and there. Hurrying along the road, desperately in search of shelter from the sun and a cooling glass of water, she staggered onwards until she spied a sign in the distance: The Edinburgh Castle Hotel.
She burst through the doors into a crowded, smoky room with enormous fans stirring the air above her head. Pushing her way through to the bar and hardly noticing that the entire room had gone silent at her presence, she sank onto a stool and mouthed, ‘Water, please,’ to a barmaid, whose bodice seemed fittingly low-cut for the intense heat. The girl nodded and scooped some water from a barrel into a mug. Kitty grabbed it and drank the lot down, then asked for another. Once that was drained and her senses began to return to her, she raised her head and looked up to find forty or so pairs of male eyes studying her.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the barmaid. And, gathering her dignity, she stood up and began to walk towards the door.
‘Miss McBride!’ An arm caught hers just as her hand reached for the brass doorknob. ‘What a coincidence to see you here.’
She looked up into the amused eyes of Drummond Mercer and felt the heat rising once again to her cheeks.
‘I was thirsty,’ she replied defensively. ‘It’s very hot out there.’
‘Yes, it is. In retrospect, I should never have left you alone on the street, being a newcomer to these climes.’
‘I am perfectly fine now, thank you.’
‘Then I am glad. Is your shopping complete?’
‘Complete as it will ever be. How anyone can shop in this heat, I really don’t know,’ she said, fanning herself.
‘A wee measure o’ whisky for you, miss?’ said a voice from behind her.
‘I . . .’
‘Medicinal purposes only,’ Drummond reassured her. ‘I’ll keep her company, Lachlan,’ he added as they threaded their way back to the bar. ‘And by the way, this young lady hails from Edinburgh.’
‘Then any dram the lassie wants is on the house. ’Tis a shock when you first arrive here, miss,’ the man continued as he slid behind the counter and opened a bottle. ‘Aye, I remember that first week when I believed I’d arrived in hell. An’ dreamt o’ the foggy, bitter nights back home. There, get that down yae and we’ll toast to the old country.’
Even though she had never partaken of alcohol, having watched Mrs McCrombie knock back huge whiskies night after night on board the Orient, Kitty assured herself that one small glass wouldn’t harm her.
‘To the homeland,’ Lachlan toasted.
‘To the homeland,’ Kitty replied. As the two men threw the golden liquid back in one, she took a small sip of her own and swallowed. It trickled down her throat, burning her tender insides. The assembled company were watching her with interest, and feeling the whisky settle quite nicely in her stomach, she tipped the glass back and drained it. Then, as her new companions had done, she slammed it down on the bar.
‘Aye, a true Scots lass.’ Lachlan gave her a mock bow, and the onlookers cheered and clapped appreciatively. ‘Another dram for us all!’
‘Well, well,’ said Drummond, as he handed her a fresh glass, ‘most impressive, Miss McBride. We might make an Aussie of you yet.’
‘I am no coward, Mr Mercer, you should know that now,’ Kitty said as she tipped the second whisky down her throat, then sat down abruptly on her stool, feeling far better than she had a few minutes earlier.
‘I can see that, Miss McBride.’ Drummond nodded sagely.
‘Now, how about a chorus of “Over the Sea to Skye” for the bonnie wee lass who’s homesick for our land,’ cried Lachlan.
The entire bar burst into song, and really, Kitty thought, having spent her life as part of a quavery female church choir, there were some quite tuneful male voices. After that, she accepted another dram of whisky and joined in with a rousing chorus of ‘Loch Lomond’. She was led to a table, and sat down with Drummond and Lachlan.
‘So, where did you live, missy?’
‘Leith.’
‘Aye!’ Lachlan banged the table and poured himself another whisky from the bottle. ‘I was born in the south. The commoners’ parts, o’ course. But enough of the old country, let’s see more of that famous Scottish bravery then!’ He poured another dram into Kitty’s glass and raised an eyebrow at her.
Without a word of retort, she lifted the glass to her mouth and drained it, her eyes fixed on Drummond’s.
An hour later, having demonstrated various Scottish dances with Lachlan to cheers from the onlookers, Kitty was just about to drain another dram when Drummond covered it with his hand. ‘Enough now, Miss McBride. I think it’s time we took you home.’
‘But . . . my friends . . .’