Free Beneath the Abbey Wall by A. D. Scott Page B

stared at McAllister, then laughed. “That’s it? No interview? No references?”
    â€œIt’ll take half a day to find out if you’re for real.” McAllister gave his trademark one-eyebrow-raised-lips-tight-shut grin and pushed a pile of copy across the desk. “Right you are, Neil, start subbing these.”
    The stranger took in the ancient Underwood, wishing for a moment he had his brand-spanking-new Olivetti, rolled in a fresh piece of paper, then looked up. He saw three faces that had either survived a particularly rough sea crossing or else were in shock. He saw that the phone was off the hook—in a newspaper office. He didn’t ask; he’d read the news. He started to type. The others did the same.
    The sound of the hooter from the iron foundry bounced off the ring of hills surrounding the town. Most businesses took that as a signal for the lunch break. Most small shops and businesses closed at one o’clock, opening again at two. Most people went home for the midday meal. Others, Joanne among them, brought a flask of tea and sandwiches. She liked having her break alone; it was one of the few times she could enjoy solitude—a rare treat for a working mother.
    But she was intrigued; she had never met a man who was not Scottish, except for the Frenchmen who came to town every autumn selling onions tied into long string. Onion Johnnies wastheir nickname. But as they spoke little English or Scottish, they didn’t count. She had never met a man who seemed so at ease with a woman. And she was vulnerable to charm.
    â€œWhat are you doing for dinner, em, lunch? Sorry, I don’t know what you call it in Canada.”
    â€œMy mother called it dinner. But in smart academic circles we call it lunch and right now I usually call it a sandwich—and not a very nice one at that.”
    â€œDo you fancy a coffee and a decent sandwich? There’s a great place on Castle Street.”
    As soon as she’d asked, Joanne looked away, embarrassed by how forward the questions must seem. Neil hadn’t noticed.
    This is the second time I’ve asked him for something. He’ll think I’m a loose woman. No, I can pass it off as Highland hospitality.
    â€œReally? Take me there this instant. I’ve been searching for good coffee ever since I arrived.”
    To Joanne, even walking down the flight of steps and through the car park and across busy Castle Street felt daring. What if anyone sees us ? she was thinking. So what? She told herself. He’s a colleague. But among her first impressions of Neil Stewart was a sense of irresistible danger.
    The small café was narrow and long and a favorite amongst staff from the offices in the town. The worst of the lunchtime rush over, a black-aproned waiter, with what was left of his hair combed across his pink skull looking like it had been stuck there with glue, gestured to a window table before whipping out his notepad, to which was tied a pencil on a grubby length of string.
    â€œCan you make an espresso?” Neil asked.
    â€œWe certainly can .” The man straightened his back and talking down his nose said, “And we do .”
    â€œA double then.” When he had gone, Neil leaned across the table and in a loud whisper said, “I think I offended him.”
    â€œYou did,” Joanne agreed. “So if you’re wanting a decent coffee from now on you’d better tell him how good it is.”
    When the coffees arrived, Neil sipped his and declared loudly, “This coffee is exceptional.”
    â€œI know.” Their waiter, who was also part owner of the café, replied, honor satisfied.
    Waiting for the toasted sandwiches, Neil said, “Tell me about working on the Gazette .”
    â€œWell . . . ” Joanne began. To her frustration, tears welled up.
    â€œIdiot!” He smacked his forehead. “I’m so sorry. I read the news about your