“She’s doin’ a’right. Keeps busy ‘s always,” Fearchar smiled, his perfectly strait teeth gleaming. He handed her a small basket not more then a handswidth long and three fingers deep he produced from the depths of his great kilt. She flipped it open to reveal a handsomely folded oiled series of muslin cloths. She laid these out and smoothed the cloth out as she and Fearchar continued with their small talk.
“Bet’n she is. Well, if ye’re in front a me stall, it must be yer day ta bring home supper. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer isbeanan, Ah’d ken?” she started packaging up a set of four large links before her fading eyes noticed Eoin. “Oh my!” she squeaked, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes went round like saucers and Eoin feared for half a second that she might suffer a heart attack right at the stall.
“Beatrice, this is Eoin. ‘e’s ‘ere as Widow Magaidh’s dotair. There’s been nah notice a’ plague posted. Eoin, Beatrice. ‘e’ll be takin’ res’dence with the misses ‘n Ah f’r the time. She’s some a’ the best èisg n’ isbeanan ’round” he smiled again at the old woman. She slipped an extra sausage link into one of the oiled sheets.
“Eoin?” Beatrice rolled the name around in her head. “Been time since hearing the name Eoin. D’ye ‘ave anythin’ ye want, dear?” she asked, trying to recuperate from the shock of seeing a plague doctor in town. Eoin pointed out the finnan haddie and put up his fingers asking for two. “Good choice, make for good cullen skink,” Beatrice wrapped up his package of smoked fish and handed it to him. Eoin dropped a half penny into her hand. ” ‘ow’d ye…?” she went to say. ” ‘ere’s mony f’r mine, Beatrice,” Fearchar handed her a penny.
” ‘aven’t met ye ‘fore, ‘ave I?” she looked at Eoin appraisingly, accepting Fearchar’s penny and pocketing it. A long time ago, Eion signed. ” ‘e’s mute Beatrice. Ah am ‘elping out ’round ‘ere while ‘e ‘elps Magaidh. She thinks ‘ighly a’ ‘is med’cines,” he hinted as he slid his small basket into the pouching of his great kilt at his stomach.
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