CHAPTER 1 The Meeting

Mary slammed the phone down on the receiver and tears of anger and frustration flooded her eyes. She crossed over to the window and looked out, the dark dismal grey of Loch Leven blending with the rain-laden clouds which were sending sheets of heavy rain across the car park. She was determined not to shed one tear and reflected that the dismal view outside matched her inner thoughts.

Laura, her roommate for the weekend and assistant for this project, looked up from her magazine and asked quietly, “Bad news Mary?”

Mary turned from the window and said in a steady voice, “Bob’s not coming, although he promised faithfully that he would. He’s playing in the first team in the Scottish Cup tie against Glasgow Rangers. Curse men and football!”

Laura shook her head in commiseration. She knew how important this weekend was for Mary’s prospects in the company. There would be far-reaching consequences if anything went wrong and it was why she, Mary and the head security officer had been sent two days earlier from the office in Glasgow to the Ballachulish Hotel to organise the conference for Campbell Holdings. Mr Campbell himself was coming over from America to personally oversee the purchase of the aluminium smelters at Kinlochleven and Fort William. As far as anyone at the office could recollect, this was the first time Mr Campbell had visited Scotland and rumour had it he was a bit of a tyrant, as most self-made billionaires are. There would be a formal dinner this evening for twenty people including the top executives and their wives, followed by an important meeting after breakfast the next morning and a working lunch. It would conclude with a Scottish-themed dance in the function suite in the evening, to which a bus from Glasgow would bring the employees and partners. They would be staying in the Loch Leven Hotel across the narrow stretch of water and in local guest houses.

Both Laura and Mary, along with their partners, had been invited to tonight’s formal dinner.

Laura thought that it was typical of Bob to let Mary down. The only son of a successful building magnate, he was extremely good-looking, owned an eye-catching sports car and was an outstanding football player. When Laura first met Mary, she had been envious of her immaculate dress sense, personality and good looks but not of her boyfriend Bob who was, in her opinion, an overgrown schoolboy with too much money. Not like her Barry who was dependable and always happy.

Laura suggested tentatively, “It’s only two o’clock, let’s go to the bar and talk this over.”

“That’s the best idea you have had since we came here,” was the instant reply.

They went downstairs to the cocktail bar but it was closed so they entered the large public bar. At the far end of the bar, a large fireplace was giving the room a comforting glow and a little terrier was lying in front of the fire, absorbing the heat. Four rough-looking men were playing darts in the corner opposite the public entrance and the barman was polishing glass tumblers.

The only other person in there was James Wilson the security officer, who sat opposite the fire reading a newspaper. Both Laura and Mary detested him. An ex-police officer, he thought he was God’s gift to women. He was always trying to touch up the female members of staff. Laura always giggled when she thought of the first and only time that he had tried his hand on Mary. She had slapped his face and stamped on his foot with such force that he had limped out of the office to the laughter of all the staff.

The four men playing darts had just finished their game, which ended in a string of jovial bad language and oaths when one of them called out, “Steady lads, women present.” At that the bad language ceased and the same voice said, “Sorry girls, our apologies.”

Mary and Laura were impressed. James Wilson got up from his seat, folded the newspaper under his arm and addressing the darts players, speaking in an arrogant manner with a put-on accent, asked “I say, is that a German Barge Dog?”

“Yes, it is,” came the reply “You certainly know your dogs.”

“I do indeed,” said the security officer and pompously left the room.

“A German Barge Dog!” came the exclamation “Your dog’s nothing but a scruffy little mongrel from Appin, Jocky.” All four men erupted in gales of laughter. Laura and Mary had a wee snigger of laughter and Mary’s dark gloom of despondency lifted a little.

As the two ladies ordered their drink from the barman, one of the darts players came over to the bar for his order. Mary watched as he walked to the bar. He carried himself well, six-foot tall, muscular build but very dirty in appearance and smelling of wood resin, which was actually quite pleasant. He had a twinkle in his eye and again apologised for the bad language when they came into the bar.

“Is that your dog?” Laura asked.

“Not really, it belongs to my mother. She runs the guest house in Ballachulish called Fern Villa.”

“Of course,” answered Mary, “We have guests staying there on Saturday night.”

“It’s not always that mother gets paid in advance. Your firm must have plenty of money,” he replied.

Laura intervened: “We had better introduce ourselves. I am Laura Scott and this is Mary Stuart. We both work for Campbell Holdings and we have organised the conference here this weekend as the boss is coming over from America.”

The man smiled and in a very cultured voice announced, “I am John Stewart but my friends call me Jock or Jocky.”

Mary noticed his order which was three pints of beer and a soft drink, making her retort, “Who’s the boy that drinks soft drinks in your group then?”

“That’s me,” was the reply. “I’m in training.” At that, he carried the drinks over to the dart players. One of the players shouted over to the girls at the bar, “I hope you two good-looking lassies have not put him off his game?”

There was something about this John Stewart that interested Mary but she didn’t know what.

Another game of darts had just begun when it was interrupted by a man who came in the public door, shaking his coat and cap from the heavy rain. Play stopped immediately and the man gave Jock a bank note. Then as Jock walked back to the bar, the four men went into a huddle and notebooks and a calculator were the subject of animated discussion.

When Jock ordered four large whiskies, Mary remarked, “Are you just the drinks waiter for your gang?”

Jock smiled, “Aye, you could say that but I am not involved. The one in the suit is Richard Sheffield, timber merchant and he is paying a fortnight’s wages to these lads who have been felling and extracting timber in Glen Duror but we were rained off at lunch time and arranged to get paid here.”

Curiosity aroused, Mary enquired, “Are you not part of it, because you appear to be a woodsman as well?”

Jock started to laugh and he explained “I’m in the army and on leave but I work with them for firewood and they keep my mother stocked up with firewood through the year.”

A wild notion surged through Mary, “Can you help me? I have a big problem. I need a partner for a very posh dinner here in the hotel tonight, seven thirty for eight, everyone to be in evening wear. Would you come and have you a dinner jacket and tie?”

Jock looked pleasantly surprised and stroked his chin with his left thumb and forefinger several times before replying.

“How could any man refuse such a good-looking woman? I have never had such a good proposition put to me before.”

Laura was bewildered but Mary was inwardly excited, former anger and depression dispersed.

Jock continued, “I have a kilt and my mess jacket from the battalion so that should pass for the evening but tell me this, you are bringing a Campbell to this area. Have you never heard of the Massacre of Glencoe, which happened a few miles from here?”

“But that’s history!” both girls exclaimed at once.

“Though not forgotten hereabouts,” said Jock. “My advice is to get a book about it and let your boss peruse it at his leisure.”

“Where will I get a book at this time of day?” retorted Mary.

“The visitor centre at Ballachulish should have one,” she was informed by a smirking Jock.

“See you later tonight,” he called as he carried the tray of drinks over to his friends.

The two girls finished their drinks and waved goodbye to the group, grabbed their coats and made a dash across the car park to Mary’s Ford Escort.

After a pleasant exchange with the lady at the visitor centre, Mary got a large glossy book about the Massacre of Glencoe and placed it in the room which Mr Campbell and his wife would occupy.

Later, Mary began to have misgivings about her date for the evening. Laura consoled her, saying that she had a hunch everything would turn out just fine. Having showered and dressed for the evening’s meal, Mary took a good long look in the mirror and took stock of the situation. Her hourglass figure was shown to its best advantage by the sea-green evening dress which complimented her copper red hair. She was twenty-five years of age and men found her attractive, as her date for the evening appeared to do so. Bob must have thought so too because with his looks, personality and parents’ wealth he could have had his choice of women. However, she often thought she was just an accessory to his lifestyle.

Walking downstairs she felt a twinge of excitement and was a trifle anxious about what the evening would bring. At the reception room she checked all the guests were arriving, secure in the knowledge that Mr Campbell’s entourage had arrived earlier by helicopter.

Mary looked at her watch, seven thirty and no sign of Jock. Laura and Barry came over to give her moral support. Suddenly, she saw all the guests turn and look to the door and there stood Jock. As she walked over to greet him, she was very conscious of his transformation from a scruffy, unshaven woodsman to this eye-catching figure of manhood. He was wearing a kilt, socks of the same tartan, brogues and a regimental red mess jacket with black lapels which were adorned with several pieces of insignia including three big gold stripes.

“You scrub up really well,” remarked Mary.

“The same thought crossed my mind about you,” replied Jock as she kissed him gently on the cheek in a formal greeting.

The sound of bagpipes drowned out any further conversation and a piper strode into the room playing “The Campbells Are Coming” followed by Mr Campbell, Mr McLean, head of the Scottish Office, and their wives. Mr McLean introduced all the guests to Mr and Mrs Campbell as they made their way to their allotted seats at the dining table which was arranged in a U-shape, with the top table as the base.

At their introduction, Mr McLean announced Mary and Jock as Mr and Mrs Stuart which caused Mary to blush and Jock, Laura and Barry to laugh outright.

“Why the hilarity?” asked a puzzled Mr Campbell as he shook Jock’s hand in introduction.

Jock explained, “We are just newfound friends. Her surname is spelled S-T-U-A-R-T of Royal patronage and my name is S-T-E-W-A-R-T, some say of tinker patronage but the truth is from the Stewarts of Appin, which is several miles down the loch.”

“I presume your kilt is the tartan from your clan then?” enquired Mr Campbell. “But what is the splendid jacket?”

Jock answered, “Correct on the kilt but the jacket belongs to the mess of the First Battalion Scots Guards.”

Mr Campbell replied, “After dinner you and I should have a long talk because we have something in common.” He then complimented Mary and Laura on their organisation of the event and added that the book on the history of the Massacre of Glencoe was a very thoughtful touch.

Introductions completed, everyone sat at their allotted seats for dinner. Mr McLean announced that the Highland dancers, who were to be the entertainment, would not be here due to unforeseen circumstances. They had been involved in a car accident but there was no serious injury.

Mr Campbell stood up and addressed the dinner party, “Mrs Campbell and I were both looking forward to the Highland dancing and are disappointed. Would that young man in the kilt be able to dance for us?” he asked, pointing at Jock.

Mary saw a fleeting scowl pass across Jock’s face and the thumb and forefinger of his left hand slowly stroked his chin several times before he stood up, tall and erect.

“Mr Campbell, I have come here as your guest and you have insulted me, asking me to perform for my supper.”

Mary’s heart sank. This would be a disaster. Mr Campbell’s face hardened into a frown and there was an ominous hush from the guests as Jock continued “but as a businessman I will make a deal with you. I’ll dance for your entertainment if you will present the trophy at the annual shinty match tomorrow afternoon, between Fort William and Ballachulish, and give the piper here his customary dram of whisky.”

Mr Campbell’s face broke into a smile and he said, “Deal done young man.”

A small round of applause confirmed the acceptance. Jock spoke to the piper in Gaelic, walked over to the opposite wall and took two Highland broadswords hanging there and crossed them on the floor. Taking off his jacket, shirt, tie, sporran and dirk, he laid them on his vacant chair. Stripped to his white vest, his deeply tanned torso revealed muscles honed to perfection, like a Greek statue.

Laura leaned over to Mary and whispered “Wow what a hunk! Every woman in the room will be envious of you!”

As the pipes started to play, Jock stood before the crossed swords, gave a small curtsy to the top table and slowly began to dance, lightly over the swords to begin with. Then as the music became faster, so did the dance steps, still in the same sequence. Jock shouted in Gaelic to the piper and the pace increased. Mary could feel a primal excitement from the music and dance.

With a roar more than a shout, Jock leaped high into the air and landed lightly on his feet. He gave an elaborate curtsy, flourishing his right hand and then stood to attention as though he was on guard at Buckingham Palace, his chest heaving with exertion.

Rivulets of sweat trickled down his face and body, staining his white vest. The entire room of guests rose to give him a standing ovation. Mary felt proud for some reason.

Mr Campbell stood up and held up his hand for silence. “I think I got the best deal in that bargain young man.”

Jock smiled and quietly said, “I forgot to mention that whoever presents the trophy has to fill it with whisky!” Everyone in the room burst into laughter.

As Jock turned to return the swords to the wall Mrs Campbell called to him, “Young man, I would like to ask you a question. Is anything worn under your kilt?”

A hush descended over the room. Jock turned around, the left thumb and forefinger stroking his chin. “I can assure you madam that nothing is worn under this kilt. It is in perfect working order.” Again, there were peals of laughter from everyone present.

As it was obvious that Jock needed a clean-up, Mary suggested he go with Barry to his room to freshen up.

When the boys had gone, Laura whispered to Mary, “That was certainly a turn up for the books. It’s set the tune for a lively evening.”

Barry and Jock soon returned to the table and they were greeted by a small round of applause.

The meal over, the speeches were short and to the point. Compliments were paid to Mary and Laura for the arrangements and the noise of conversation increased, no doubt due to the amount of alcohol consumed.

Mr and Mrs Campbell came over to where Mary, Jock, Laura and Barry were sitting and asked if they could join them which caused a few raised eyebrows among the other guests.

Mr Campbell asked Jock, “There are a lot of questions I have for you young man so can I invite you and your three friends to join us in our room for the sake of privacy?”

They dutifully followed the Campbells to their room which had beautiful views over the loch and consisted of a lounge and ensuite bedroom.

Drinks offered and accepted, Mr Campbell enquired “What branch of the army are you in?”

“Infantry,” replied Jock.

“But are you not one of those toy soldiers that stand outside royal residences guarding the Queen?”

Jock stroked his chin with his left forefinger and thumb several times. Mary grimaced, wondering what reply would come out now. Jock pointed to his tunic and said “This ribbon is for Malaya. This one for Borneo and this for Northern Ireland. The silver cluster on the Irish one has been mentioned in despatches. The crossed rifles are for marksmanship and the “L” is for being in the mortar platoon. The three stripes indicate that I am a lance sergeant, which is the worst rank in the regiment because you get all the flak coming down the ranks and all the complaints coming up from the rank and file. After this leave I am going on a parachute course and hope to join the Guards Independent Parachute Company which is reputed to be the finest in the world and will add a pair of wings to this jacket.”

“Hold on son!” exclaimed Mr Campbell, “I said I had something in common with you and I will tell you about that. When I was your age, I was in the American Air Force, fresh out of college and was thrown into the Korean War. When the gooks entered the war, it pushed the allies into full retreat. I was strafing the Chinese positions and got caught up in a dog fight with some MIG fighters and was forced to parachute to safety. I was picked up by soldiers of the Black Watch who were setting up defensive positions. They were joined by the Argylls and KOSB on their left and on their right were Americans. During repeated attacks by the Chinese, the Americans were coming over the radio requesting urgent artillery and air support. The Jocks as everyone called them were desperately calling headquarters for the result of some soccer match between Scotland and England. There was so much inter regimental banter and insults and every second word was a swear word but moral was sky high. I reckon they were the finest infantry soldiers in the world. They were shelled, mortared and involved in a lot of hand-to-hand fighting. I helped by carrying food and ammunition to forward position and because of my name they accepted me. When the result of the soccer match came through a huge cheer came out of the Scottish ranks so the Scots must have won. Then they all started singing a song called The Flower of Scotland. Quite mad, the lot of them.”

It was Barry who broke the moment of ensuing silence by raising his glass of malt whisky, given earlier to him by Mrs Campbell and giving a toast to all Scottish soldiers.

“Tell me about this game of shinty,” asked Mr Campbell.

“Well,” answered Jock. “It’s like hockey to a certain extent. The stick is called a caman and it’s where your ice hockey originated from. The game tomorrow is between Fort William and Ballachulish and the throw-up is at three o’clock. It’s an annual fixture for the George Murray Memorial Trophy. He was a former resident here and was in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and fought with distinction against the Japanese in the Second World War. Come about four o’clock, see a bit of the game, then present the trophy. Now that your company is the new owner of both smelters you’ve made a lot of families feel secure and you’ll be a popular person at the prize giving.”

This free publicity appealed to Mr Campbell but he decided to change the subject and asked Jock about salmon fishing. Jock smiled and answered him by saying that the River Coe had some good pools if the conditions were right.

“Do you fish yourself?” enquired Mr Campbell.

“Not legally anyway,” came the hesitant reply.

“What do you mean by that statement?” asked Mr Campbell.

“Well,” Jock said, “us locals take a fish now and then by ‘girning’ which is catching the fish with a wire snare over the tail.”

“Come off it!” answered Mr Campbell. “Do you take me for a fool! I fished for salmon in Canada and the States and know how tricky they can be sometimes.”

“It’s simple,” Jock explained, “You attach the snare to a slender pole, tie the other end of the pole to a secure fastening on the bank, shine a good torch into the river and guide the top of the snare over the tail.”

Mr Campbell scoffed at this explanation and declared that Jock was living in the realms of fantasy. All the others in the room could see that Jock was becoming angry, what with the non-verbal communication, the aggressive pose and the fixed glare. Mary held her breath, anxious about what Jock was going to say next.

“All right,” retorted Jock. “I’ll prove it to you if you have the courage to come with me in the next thirty minutes and I’ll make you eat your words!”

“You’re on!” came the answer. “Seeing is believing!”

“Be ready in thirty minutes,” ordered Jock, “and wear completely dark clothing. Remember that what we are doing is against the law and a man in your position … well, embarrassment would be the least of your worries but you’re in my capable hands, so it’s very low risk.”

Mrs Campbell sat composed at the table and just poured herself another drink. Mary offered to keep her company when the men went off. The offer was gratefully accepted.

Out in the car park, Mr Campbell looked at Jock’s old Land Rover, “It’s seen better days,” he exclaimed, “and what are the two bicycles doing in the back?”

“We drive, then cycle, then walk to the pool in the river where we extract two fish, one for you and one for me.”

As Jock drove off, Mr Campbell looked around this old vehicle that smelled strongly of wood resin and thought of his chauffeur- driven limousine at home. He smiled to himself, thinking, “What have I let myself in for? Driving alone in the dark in a dilapidated old vehicle, with a virtual stranger on a clandestine operation.”

“By the way Jock,” he said, “Just call me Doug. That’s what my friends call me.”

They drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and Jock parked the Land Rover in a secluded lay-by.

“I hope you can ride a bike?” enquired Jock.

“Once accomplished never forgotten,” was the reply.

They cycled for about a mile and hid the bikes at the side of the road. Jock took a wooden pole from the crossbar of his bike and handed Doug a powerful torch. “From now on, don’t speak and don’t switch that torch on until I tell you. And blacken your face with mud at this nearby stream,” declared Jock.

Preparations completed, they headed off on foot in the direction of the noise of cascading water. It was a half-moon and visibility was adequate. When they reached the river, they walked upstream to where the rapids flowed into a large deep pool.

Jock attached the snare to the stick and tied the end of the stick to a sturdy sapling. He whispered to Doug, “If by chance the water bailiff comes, go into the water behind that big stone and cover your head with your jacket and remain quiet and still, do nothing else. Now put the torch to the surface and shine it down into the pool.”

The torchlight revealed about twenty salmon lying about four feet from them, their tails slowly moving back and forth. Slowly, Jock slipped the stick into the water and guided the snare over the nearest tail. With a quick heave, a seven-pound bar of silver was flapping on the bank. A hard karate chop killed the fish which he then laid on a bed of ferns, as if in reverence.

Doug said nothing but looked on, agog with amazement at the simplicity of the act. Again, Jock motioned him to repeat the process and the torchlight revealed the same picture of salmon waiting patiently for flood water to go upstream to spawn, as they had done for countless generations. Another quick heave and a similar fish was on the bank.

As Jock began to undo his stick from the sapling, he paused and put his finger to his lips, indicating to Doug to hide behind the rock. Jock put the fish in his rucksack, took the torch and stick and hid beside Doug in a similar fashion. All was quiet apart from the gurgling of the rapids as they entered the deep pool, then the faint murmur of conversation was heard, getting louder and coming towards them. The figures of two men appeared in the moonlight, talking Gaelic. Slowly they passed the pool and made their way upstream. A few minutes after they had gone, Jock tapped Doug on the shoulder, put his finger to his lips and beckoned Doug to follow him.

They reached the bikes with not a word spoken, cycled to the Land Rover, still in silence. Once at the Land Rover, Jock produced a hip flask and offered Doug the first swig, which was gratefully accepted.

“Christ!” Doug exploded. “What kind of whisky is that? It’s burning all the way to the soles of my feet and my chest is on fire!”

“There are some dry clothes under the back seat. Get into them and put your wet clothes in the plastic bag.”

Driving back in the dry clothes which smelled of wood resin, the mood in the vehicle was of sheer exhilaration. The excitement, exertion and the whisky all made Doug’s face glow like the dying embers of a good campfire.

“What an adventure! I would not believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I take it all back young man. Wait till I tell the wife about this!”

“Just the wife,” cautioned Jock, “No-one else. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” replied Doug. “I’ve not had so much fun in years! Your health!” he toasted, taking another swig from the hip flask.

“What were the two men talking about when they were patrolling the river?” enquired Doug.

“It was tomorrow’s shinty game,” answered Jock. “They said at least Jocky Stewart would be in bed at this hour, resting for the game.” At that, both men erupted in peals of laughter.

Jock drove round to the rear of the hotel and knocked at the lighted window which brought the night porter to the back door.

“It is yourself Jock!” he exclaimed, “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Jock explained, “It’s a long story but two fish jumped out of the River Coe and landed in my bag. One of them is for you and the other for this gentleman’s working lunch tomorrow as he is a guest in the hotel and could you dry his clothes for him before you finish your shift?”

The night porter took in the appearance of Doug and Jock with a smile, ushered Doug in and told him to follow him up in the staff lift as his appearance would scare the daylights of any other guest and to leave his assortment of dry clothes outside his door, from where he would collect them later. Jock left to go home.