Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [7]
A peculiar sight met Josie’s eyes as they cruised along the main street. A man covered in flannel and stuck all over with a thick matting of spiky burrs was making his way along the street.
“That’s the Burryman,” said Hamish.
“What on earth is a Burryman?” asked Josie.
“Some folks say he is carrying off all the town’s shame and guilt, and others say it’s good luck for the fishermen, because all the burrs are supposed to represent fish caught in their nets.”
He drove to a field north of the town where the fair was being held. Hamish strolled around the various booths with Josie, stopping here and there to introduce her to townspeople.
There was all the fun of the fair, from a Ferris wheel and roundabouts to candy floss, hot dogs, and venison burgers.
The Gypsies, having spotted the arrival of Hamish, made sure he had nothing to complain about.
Josie walked along with Hamish in a happy dream as the sun shone down and the air was full of jaunty raucous music and the smells of frying food and sugary candy floss.
“We’re walking along here like an old married couple,” said Josie.
Hamish stopped abruptly. “You’re quite right,” he said. “It’s a waste of manpower. You patrol the left and I’ll patrol the right,” and with that he walked off.
Josie sadly watched him go. Then she saw a fortune-teller’s caravan. She shrugged. May as well get her fortune told.
She entered the caravan. There was a disappointingly ordinary-looking middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa. She had grey permed hair and was wearing a blouse and tweed skirt and sensible brogues.
“Sit down,” she said. “Five pounds, please.”
Feeling very let down, Josie handed over five pounds. Where were the tarot cards, the crystal ball, and the kabbalistic signs?
“Let me see your hands.”
Josie held out her small, plump hands.
“You’ll live long,” said the fortune-teller, “and have two children.”
“My husband? Who’s my husband?” asked Josie eagerly.
“I cannae see one. There’s darkness and danger up ahead. Let go of your dreams and you’ll be fine.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“You’re a fraud,” said Josie angrily.
The Gypsy’s light grey eyes flashed with dislike and then suddenly seemed to look through her. “Bang and flames,” she said.
“What?”
“There’s danger up ahead. Look out for bombs.”
“Glad to know the Taliban are going to pay a visit to this dead-alive dump, this arsehole of the British Isles. It might liven things up,” said Josie furiously. She walked down the steps of the caravan and stood blinking in the sunlight.
What a waste of five pounds, thought Josie crossly. Then she saw that the crowds were beginning to move towards the far side of the field, where a decorated platform had been erected. “What’s going on?” she asked a woman.
“It’s the crowning o’ the Lammas queen.”
Josie followed the crowd. It was very hot. She could feel the sun burning down right through her cap. This far north, she thought, there was no pollution to block any of the sun’s rays.
In the distance she could hear the skirl of the pipes. Using her authority, Josie pushed her way to the front. The provost, the Scottish equivalent of the English mayor with his gold chain, was already on the platform surrounded by various town worthies. Hamish was there as well, standing to one side of the platform. She went to join him. A wide gate at the side of the field was being held open.
First came the pipe band, playing “Scotland the Brave.” Behind came a decorated float with the queen seated on a throne with two handmaidens. The Lammas queen was a true highland beauty with black glossy hair and wide blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes.
The float was decorated with sheaves of corn. “Where did they get the corn?” asked Josie.
“Plastic,” said Hamish.
The queen was helped down from the float, and two men in kilts carried her throne up onto the platform. The pipes fell silent. “What’s her name?” asked Josie.
“That