Jamie sat up straight. “Mum, why don’t we go to Australia too? Go and find him?” His dark eyes were shining. “Like an adventure”

2

Even though Glenisla is miles from anywhere, it is well worth a visit to taste talented chef Pete Gibson’s food. His is a gift that few of his peers possess. His lightness of touch results in sauces that are the very essence of the flavour but without the heavy richness too often used by classically Frenchtrained chefs. Self-taught, he takes quality Scottish ingredients and converts them skilfully into masterpieces that last in your memory long after your meal is over. Starters such as crab bon bons with saffron aioli or venison and rabbit terrine with sweetcorn ice cream have true, defined flavours yet leave you wanting more. And for mains, his seaweed-crusted lamb loin and hand-dived scallops with cauliflower korma will leave you simply gasping for breath, so exquisite is each mouthful. But you must leave room for dessert. Just one taste of Aussie Pete’s rhubarb and elderflower syllabub with ginger macadamia shortbread will...”

Fiona flung the paper across the table. For God’s sake, was he sleeping with the woman? She remembered the day the journalist arrived at the hotel, allegedly incognito.

The tape recorder sitting on the table gave it away; that and the fact that she dined alone. Fiona had taken one look at her inappropriate attire for a country hotel – high stilettos and décolleté neckline – and knew who she was.

Doubt

Fiona sat back on her chair at the kitchen table and looked up at the ceiling.

He’d been out late that night, just what had he been up to?

She was beginning to doubt everything about Pete now. Perhaps she should contact the paper and try to speak to the reporter.

Just then the phone rang.

“Yes? Oh, hi, Mrs C, I was about to come back over the road. Good, glad he’s been OK. No, I’ll give him lunch here, thanks.”

She tried Pete’s phone again – nothing – then she stretched for the paper to see the journalist’s name. Cressida Scott, that was it.

She headed for the door, her gait weary. How dare he do this to her, to Jamie. She could kill him. Jamie sat down at the table and grimaced.

“Why’re we having soup, Mum? Mrs C said I could have pizza and chips at the hotel.”

“You had pizza last night. Soup’s better for you. Eat up,” Fiona snapped.

Jamie glanced up at his mother’s face, her features set rigid.

He took one spoonful then plonked the spoon back into the bowl, spilling some soup over the edge.

“Watch what you’re doing, will you?” Fiona tapped at her phone then flung it on to the table.

“You said phones weren’t allowed on the table, Mum. And why wasn’t Pete at the hotel? Mrs C said he’s run to do an errand. What’s that?”

Fiona sighed. “Jamie, I’ve no idea where Pete’s gone. Not a clue. He hasn’t told me, but I’ve a feeling he might have gone home to Australia.” “Without us?”

Fiona shrugged and ripped off a hunk of bread. “But he always said he’d take me and show me Sydney Harbour Bridge and the kangaroos and that cricket place...”

“Well, it looks like he’s gone all by himself.”

A single tear

Jamie finished his soup in silence. Fiona drummed her fingers on the table and glanced at her son.

A single tear ran down his face as he gazed into his half-empty soup bowl.

She scraped her chair back and knelt down beside him. She reached over and hugged him tight. “Jamie, darling, I’m sorry.” She stroked his curls. “Sometimes people let you down and it looks like Pete’s let us down. But I’ve no idea why.”

“Was it because I tied his two shoelaces together that time and he never laughed like you did?”

Fiona smiled. “No, it was certainly nothing to do with you.

“And today in the paper there’s this brilliant article raving about his cooking, so it seems a strange time to go, but...”

Jamie sat up straight. “Mum, why don’t we go to Australia too? Go and find him?”

His dark eyes were shining. “Like an adventure.” Fiona shook her head. “We’ve no money, we can’t do that.

“In fact,” she stroked her son’s cheek, “I’ve been thinking, we’ll need to leave here.

“Doug will let us live here for a bit but, when they get a new chef, we’ll have to leave the cottage.”

Jamie wandered over to the drawer and returned with paper and pencils. “But where will we go?”

“We might need to go and live with Granny and Pa in Dundee.”

“I don’t want to live in Dundee. I want to live here.” “But their house is big and... Oh, remember how you can see the Tay Bridge from Granny’s bedroom window?

“Well, they’re making a room in the attic above there; she might let you have that room as your bedroom.”

Jamie started to draw a picture of an aeroplane with lots of tiny windows.

Fiona took the dishes over to the sink then came back to peer at the picture.

Jamie had just completed all the windows and began to draw a head in one at the front.

“Is that Pete?”

“No, that’s the pilot. I’ve forgotten what Pete’s face looks like.”

Monday December 29 1879

Ann Craig sat in her armchair, gazing out of the drawing room window on the first floor. Dressed in dark grey crepe, her face was ashen, her eyes redrimmed.

It was late morning and for the past hour she had sat there alone, contemplating the tranquil vista, taking deep breaths.

She was trying not to panic at the thought of what might lie ahead for her and the children.

She looked at the river, calm now, the water scarcely lapping against the esplanade. The storm had eased the night before, around midnight.

It was as if the howling wind and lashing rain had been a dream, or rather a nightmare – until she looked over again to the far end of the bridge.

Ann took up the field glasses on the table and peered into them, once more focusing on the broken piers.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Mrs Craig,” said the maid. “Mrs Donaldson is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Jessie. Bring us in some tea.”

More tomorrow.