Hamish and Agatha's

Fiona stared into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and dance, while around her, everyone who had known and loved her grandmother, talked or cried or both. She was numb. Curled around her steaming cup of hot coffee, she tucked her toes underneath herself and held the warm mug close to her chest. Her eyes closed and all the chatter and weeping slowly faded away into nothing.

“Fiona! There ye are, darlin’!” Startled, she opened her eyes and looked up to see an eccentric old woman hobbling towards her, a large, floral hat wobbling precariously atop a nest of wispy, violet hair.

“Come and have a bite, dear,” the woman said breathlessly.

“I’m fine, Aunt Maggie.” Fiona turned back to the fire. Pursing wrinkled, red lips, Maggie sat down with a grunt and put an ancient hand on Fiona’s leg.

“Yer not fine. Yer pale as a ghost. Yeh might just try eatin’ some of that food of yours every now and then. You were a cook in America, were you not?”

“A chef, actually, and I’m not hungry.” Maggie stared at Fiona’s fair face and dark green eyes, red hair curling delicately around her shoulders.

“Yer the spittin’ image of her,” she said softly. “I always thought so.” Fiona smiled wryly and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“I ken yer grievin’, mo ghràidh, we all are. She was my sister, after all. But she wouldna wanted yeh mournin’ for her the way yeh are. Brian says he’s hardly seen yeh as you spend so much time cooped up in yer old room.”

“I just...I just don’t know what to do now,” Fiona sniffed and wiped at her cheek.

“The best way to honor yer granny is to go on livin’ as though she’s still here. That’s what she would want.” Maggie said sternly, reaching out her hand to grab Fiona’s face and tilt it towards her own.

“She loved yeh, lass, she would want yeh to go about yer life and be happy.” Fiona’s eyes swam with tears as the heaviness in her chest seemed to crush the air out of her. Agatha Murray had been the closest thing she’d had to a real mother growing up, her own mother being too preoccupied with work to care about things such as making dinner or reading bedtime stories.

“I don’t know how,” she said, her voice thick and constricted.

“Neither do I lass, neither do I, but we’ll just have to manage.” Maggie sighed.

“Fiona Murray?” Fiona and her aunt both turned to see a handsome man in a brown, tweed suit standing awkwardly a few feet away.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt and I’m terribly sorry for your loss. My name is Duncan Avery, Ms. Murray’s attorney?” he said.

“May we, uh, speak in private?” He coughed and fiddled with his bowtie.

“Go on, lass,” Maggie said, patting Fiona’s thigh. “We’ll speak later.” Fiona kissed Maggie’s papery cheek and, noticing how uncomfortable he was, stood up and smiled warmly at the lawyer.

“Right this way, Mr. Avery. We can talk in Granny’s study.”

“Please, call me Duncan,” he said. Fiona smiled kindly and nodded.

“Alright then, Duncan, will you have a seat?” she said, gesturing to an old, leather armchair.

“This won’t take very long, Ms. Murray,” he said, remaining standing.

“Fiona,” she corrected. Duncan smiled down at her. He took a white envelope from inside his breast pocket and held it out.

“Fiona, your grandmother wrote this a few weeks before she passed away. She asked me to give it to you after she died, but only in the strictest confidence. She didn’t want anyone else to know about it.” Her hands shook slightly as she took the letter and traced over Granny’s looped handwriting.

“Fiona”

She took a steadying breath and looked up.

“Do you...do you know what it says?” she asked, her voice constricted as she tried to hold back tears.

“No, I’m sorry, it was sealed when she gave it to me.” Fiona nodded and slowly walked over to her grandmother’s desk.

“I’ll, erm, just leave you to it then. If you have any questions or...need anything, feel free to contact my office. Again, I am so sorry for your loss.” She looked up as he laid his business card on the corner of the desk.

“Thank you for delivering this,” she whispered. Duncan smiled and nodded his head.

“I’ll see myself out.”

Fiona sunk into the desk chair, holding the envelope tightly. With shaking hands, she grabbed the letter opener sitting on the desk and sliced gently through the sealed letter.

Dearest Fiona,

In the attic, you’ll find a large chest. It contains my most precious possessions and I don’t want anyone going through them, but you. You’re special, mo ghràidh, and I love you more than you know. When you’re ready, go through the chest. There is a story I always wanted to tell you, but never could. Look in the little black book. You’ll find everything you need to know in there. I hope you’ ll open that restaurant in Paris you always talked about. I’ll be watching over you.

All My Love,

Granny

***

Later that evening, long after she’d walked the last of her family and guests to the door and said goodnight, Fiona sat down to read through the letter once more. Her grandmother’s instructions were to look in the attic for a chest, but she never knew the house had an attic, let alone where to find it. She made herself a cup of tea and walked through the old house to Granny’s room. Outside, rain pelted against the centuries-old house and thunder shook the grounds as if Scotland herself was mourning. Fiona twisted her grandmother’s doorknob as she had done thousands of times on nights just like this. Opening the door, she inhaled sharply, the room was exactly as her grandmother had left it; bed neatly made, Bible and rosary on the nightstand next to her glasses, and slippers on the carpet. On the dresser, an unfinished knitting project sat waiting, unaware that it would never be finished.

Suddenly, she heard banging. Spilling her tea, Fiona jumped and spun around. It was coming from Granny’s closet. Quickly, she walked over and threw open the door, half-expecting to see a ghost inside clambering around and knocking things about. There was no ghost, but the banging continued on from above. She looked up and there, above her head, was a wooden door built into the ceiling, a dusty chain dangling down. Her heart thumped. The attic.

***

“Fiona?” Brian’s voice echoed through the empty house. Grumbling and rubbing his sore leg, he limped through the foyer and down the hall, calling again.

“Fiona!”

“In here!” a voice called back. The old gardener shuffled down the hallway.

“Mo ghràidh, why don’t ye come an’ have tea with me, eh? I havena seen ye leave the house since the funeral...” Stepping into her bedroom, the old man lost his train of thought.

“What...” he started. Fiona sat in the middle of her bed, surrounded by piles of old clothes, newspaper clippings, jewelry, and stacks of black, leather journals.

She looked up and smiled emotionally.

“Granny’s things from when she was a girl. There was a chest in the attic.” Brian stood speechless.

“Oh, and the shutters up there need fixing. They were banging around during the storm the other night.” He nodded slowly.

“Look at these!” She said, grabbing one of the little black books off her bed, flipping through until she found what she was looking for.

“The entries in this book start in 1939 - the beginning of World War 2.” The gardener rubbed his hand over his face and scratched at his beard, suddenly looking very old and very tired.

She read out loud -

December 15, 1939

Hamish leaves tomorrow. He’s asked to meet me in the old shed near the loch to say our goodbyes, but how can I say goodbye knowing he may never return?

Brain coughed suddenly and Fiona looked up, startled.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Aye, I just...I havena heard that name spoken in quite some time.”

“Hamish?” she asked. Rubbing his leg, Brain nodded. “Who was he?” He turned and motioned for Fiona to follow him down the hall into the sitting room.

“The Gordon’s,” he said as he limped through the quiet house “lived just beyond the far field, their farm backed up to the Murray’s estate. Hamish, the Gordon's eldest son, Aggie, and I were all friends.” Fiona listened intently.

“We were all about the same age, back when my Da worked the grounds,” he explained, “Hamish, a wee bit older than myself, and Aggie, just a few months younger than I, but we were inseparable…” Brian gazed into the fire, his eyes staring back through time.

“Hamish and I enlisted and were sent to England to fight.” He looked up at Fiona and smiled softly.

“Yer Granny spit like a cat when we told her,” he remembered, chuckling to himself.

“She told us she would never forgive us for leavin’ ‘er. Hamish especially,” he added “She’d loved him ever since I’d known her and he loved her too - didn’t realize it ‘til she told him he did though.” Fiona laughed gently.

“He never made it back from the war.”

“Granny never saw him again?” Brian shook his head.

“We came home, January of 1940, before being sent to the front. Two months later he was MIA.”

“That’s right,” Fiona said, flipping through the journal. “Here, listen.”

March 24, 1940

Hamish is missing. I heard from Alice Gordon that his transport plane went down. They found several members of his squad, but Hamish wasn’t among them. They won’t tell her anything more, something about Operational Security...” Her voice trailed off as she continued to read.

“Hamish was my grandfather,” she breathed, looking up in surprise.

“Aye, and her father was furious. Lord James Murray never approved of Hamish.”

“Why not?” She asked.

“Yer grandmother was a Murray! Upper-class and educated, with an inheritance to her name. Hamish was just a farmer’s son.”

“So, what happened?”

“She begged her father to fund a search party and send her over with them. Of course, he refused, but she wouldna take no for an answer. She eventually convinced her grandfather to fund the search. I expect he thought, in the condition she was in, that it would be better for her to marry poor than not to marry at all.”

“Did she ever find him?” Fiona asked.

“No, lass, Hamish was found before she could organize the search. Their plane had gone down in occupied territory. Hamish was killed trying to protect a younger soldier.”

“She must’ve been devastated,” she whispered.

“Aye, she was, we all were, but she took it the hardest,” Brian nodded, “Hamish was the love of her life.”

***

Packing the last of her grandmother’s things back into the chest, she noticed a slip of paper sticking out from one of the black journals. Carefully, she took the books out of the chest and found an envelope labeled “Hamish”.

Agatha,

I need to see you. Meet me in the old shed by the loch at 8 pm and come alone. I have something important I need to ask you. I love you.

Hamish

Behind the letter was a thin golden band and a banknote for￡14,579.

“$20,000,” Fiona breathed.

***

A year later, Fiona looked around, making sure everything was in its proper place before opening up the door. A beautiful spring sun shone down upon the Parisian street and, on the corner, an old man played something lovely on the accordion. She fingered the slender golden band she wore on a chain around her neck and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face.

“Excusiez moi, Madame, vous êtes ouvertes?” Fiona turned and smiled.

“Oui, we are open. Welcome to Hamish and Agatha’s.”