Highland Fling Episode 41

“Isaw the cashmere down at the lodge. On the table,” Mirabelle said more encouragingly. “I was drawn to the turquoise.” Tash’s eyes lit. “It’s a wonderful shade. I chose it for next season – by the time we’ve had it made up, it’ll be winter 1959, can you imagine? People think knitwear is about the collars, but actually it’s about the fit on the body,” she said as she warmed to the topic. “The length of the sleeve is the important thing. I like a flared sleeve. It’s modern.”

“Oh yes. I can see that,” Mirabelle said. “It takes more fabric but there’s definitely a market at the top end for something unusual – fitted on the body and then...” She flicked her fingers. “Something new.”

Margaret returned with an inadequately small, hand-held mirror in which, squinting to make herself out, Mirabelle could see that Tash was right.

“Nina could wear orange, but she never did,” Tash continued. “Red. Boring red. I think these mid-pastels are wonderful, don’t you?” She pulled out a cardigan with a Peter Pan collar the colour of heather and held it up to her cheek.

The buttons were like tiny pearls. “Oh god, I thought I was done, but I guess I’d better take this one too. They’d cost five times as much in New York.”

Mirabelle remembered the huge percentages in Nina’s diary. She was about to ask something about mark-ups, when a woman wearing an ill-fitting brown tweed suit appeared in the doorway.

Her jacket collar was edged with velvet, which made it stick out in an awkward V.

“Good morning, ladies,” she said as if the words were an announcement. “Miss Orlova, I’d like to extend our condolences. We were all sorry to hear about your godmother.”

Tash put down the cardigan. “Thanks,” she said, biting her lip. “Oh gosh. I’m getting upset again.”

It must be difficult, Mirabelle thought, everyone talking about Nina. She knew from experience, grief came and went like a cruel game of hide and seek. Tash pulled herself together.

“I came to confirm,” she said. “Nina was working on behalf of several boutiques, as you know. The orders still stand despite her death. I’d like to ship just as we arranged.”

“It’s extremely thoughtful of you at such a difficult time, miss.”

“She would have hated to let anybody down,” Tash said sadly. “And I’d like to add an order too. Those green hats with the bobbles we looked at? Do you know the ones I mean?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll take two dozen of those. Three-ply. They’re just the thing for a New York winter.”

The woman shifted her weight slightly. “Nina didn’t like them but I do,” Tash continued.

“They’ll sell well at this little place I know. And that’ll be all, apart from this cardigan. I’ll take that now. It’s for me.” She handed it over.

“Right.” The woman handed the cardigan to Margaret, who now hovered in the doorway. “Wrap that, would you, dear?” she said. “And would you like to take that peach stole, madam?”

“Oh, yes, please,” said Mirabelle. “Tash has a frightfully good eye. Do you make all of this here?”

“Yes, miss,” the woman said. “I can take you around the weaving sheds, if you’d like.”

Eleanor pointedly looked at her watch. “Your call, Mirabelle, but we can’t do everything.”

They paid, took their parcels and walked back to the car.

Mirabelle slipped the stole out of its brown paper and draped it over her shoulders on top of her coat. “You disagreed with your godmother about the order she made?”

“She could be old-fashioned,” Tash said. “She was wrong about those hats. People will go wild for them, don’t you think, Eleanor?”

“I can see youngsters wearing them next winter,” Eleanor enthused. “Skating in Central Park.”

Tash loitered beside the car door. “I suppose I can do what I want. Now that she’s gone.”

“Is there something you would like to do, that you couldn’t before?” Mirabelle pressed. “Bobble hats notwithstanding?”

Tash stuck her hands in her pockets. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s still sinking in. One minute I’m heartbroken and then I just want to get on.

“The hats are a start, I guess.” Along the bank, vivid yellow crocuses peeked through the undergrowth like doubloons cast on the shore. The water was smooth as glass. Eleanor reached into her handbag and brought out a silver cigarette case. Mirabelle and Tash both declined. She leaned against the car and lit a smoke.

“Are those Capstans?” Mirabelle asked. “I know. Terrible, right? I can’t help it. Bruce has tried everything – he bought me a carton of some smart Italian brand but it turns out I have the palate of a sailor. He won’t let these in the house.” She took a deep draw and put her arm around Mirabelle’s shoulder.

“They learned to swim right here, our men. Can’t you see them, two skinny kids splashing about for dear life? The water is freezing even in high summer.” She chortled.

Ahead of them, a bird dived for fish, falling from the sky like a stone and emerging triumphant with a squirming, silvery trout. Eleanor stubbed out her cigarette and slipped into the driving seat. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get it over with.”

“What do you mean?” Tash sounded perturbed.

“Gwendolyn. It’s almost 11 and Mirabelle has questions she wants to ask the old bird.”

Tash raised her eyebrows.

“I like to be thorough,” Mirabelle said.

Unbelievable

The Dougals’ house was a castle. The road began to climb away from the lochside as the women drove towards it, the gradient becoming steeper and the engine labouring.

“Wow,” Tash breathed as five storeys of hewn granite with two towers and a keep swept into view.

“Is that... real?”

I suppose I can do what I want. Now that she’s gone.’ ‘Is there something you would like to do that you couldn’t?’

More tomorrow.

Copyright © Sara Sheridan 2020, extracted from Highland Fling, published by Constable, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, at £8.99