Page 89 of Scotlander

Ben Affleck had retweeted her post. This Canadian reporter knows her stuff! If she says the potatoes are to die for? Get in there, peeps!

And it wasn’t just Ben. All sorts of famous Outlander superfans hadn’t just crept out of the woodwork, they’d leapt out, social media guns blazing: Lin-Manuel Miranda, William Shatner, Michelle Obama. Even the series’ actors had retweeted multiple posts and pledged their support.

#KeepingItRealScotsStyle

#TattieHolsAreTheNewBlack

#SaveBalcraigieLikeAJacobite

And on and on it went.

The rest of the morning was lost in a blur of activity.

The day was bright, but the wind had a bite to it.

Half an hour’s worth of picking turned many of the pickers’ fingers white with cold. Duncan got a few volunteers to help him build three big bonfires around the periphery of the fields. Before they set them ablaze, they dug pits and charged them with a few buckets of the freshly unearthed potatoes.

Orla was helping shop owners from down the village set up pop-up stands along the loch edge for those who hadn’t brought enough food or wanted to try some local fare.

Trevor used the tractor to drag a couple of the logs from the barnyard over for people to rest on. There were so many people that even if groups of them were resting, warming themselves by the fire or accepting one of Jennifer’s rapidly increasing knitting circle scarves, it meant there were still scores of people following the tractors, baskets steadily filling up with farm-fresh potatoes.

‘Willa?’ Dougie appeared by her side and nodded towards the drive. ‘I think you might need to see to this.’ He turned her around.

A television satellite truck was lumbering past the stables.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

This had just become, very, very real.

Her world colliding with . . . what was this? Her new one? Her temporary one? She and Finn hadn’t really tackled that part of their conversation this morning. Whatever it was, part of her heart lived here now.

She scanned the area, desperate to find Finn. He should be the face and voice of this whole thing, not her. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

She asked Dougie to send the truck down to the loch’s edge – she’d meet them there – then ran towards the fields where a dozen geriatric tractors were churning up hundreds upon thousands of potatoes, for the men, women and children following steadily in their wake, collecting them just as their forefathers (or someone’s forefathers) had for centuries. By hand.

They were chatting, singing, making the best of a back-breaking task with the shared joy of one another’s company.

A pure, crystal-clear voice rang out and above all of the pickers. The singer, a tall woman with short shock-white hair, had on a hessian dress, Doc Martens, plaid gardening gloves and a blue sequin-covered tam o’ shanter. Her voice was familiar and otherworldly all at once. She was singing a Eurythmics song Willa’s mom used to sing to her dad when she was doing dishes and wanted him to come and help dry. ‘Right by Your Side’. Not in the regular way – fast paced and in need of a techno beat back-up. A cappella. Beautifully cadenced. And utterly unforgettable.

Willa put her hand above her eyes and stared at the woman. Hard.

Her breath abandoned her when she realised who it was. There, in the field, with dirt on her face and her hands full of potatoes, was Annie Lennox. Picking tatties along with the commoners. No one seemed particularly fussed that one of the top singers on the entire planet was serenading them as they worked. In LA there would’ve been mammoth security guards holding off a massive throng of autograph seekers and then the whole thing would have to be shut down when the potatoes began to be trampled on or a tractor ran over a child or any number of other horrible things that could happen during a publicity stunt gone wrong.

But not here. Because it wasn’t a stunt. Or for show. Everyone was respecting the unspoken message voicelessly whispered through the throngs of people pouring down to the fields literally preparing to dig in: we’re here to work. Everything else is gravy.

Her attention was snagged by the news crew who pulled up to the side of the field. It was a standard team. A producer (easily identified by the multiple phones and attempts to micromanage everyone). A very well-groomed twenty-something man dressed in a kilt – the talent, probably. A camerawoman and a sound man (both of whom were also wearing kilts).

She ran across to them. ‘Hey! Hi. Can I help you?’

‘Aye, lass.’ The producer made a scoffing noise and in an entirely non-subtle aside said to the crew, ‘Didn’t I tell you an American would be the first at the gate?’

Before Willa could ask him what the hell that meant, he continued in an even thicker Scots accent, ‘Can you point us in the direction of whoever’s properly in charge of this wee affair? We’re here from the BBC.’ He shook his head in disbelief as he looked out at the scores of people already filling their baskets with freshly unearthed potatoes. ‘I have to tell you. I didnae expect this. A few bampots in kilts, mebbe—’

‘Oi!’ cut in the camerawoman. ‘First of all, are you saying this wee lassie here can’t be in charge because she’s a woman? Or because she’s American?’ She held up her hand. ‘Don’t answer that. It’ll instantly be offensive no matter what you say. And as for the bampots – I’ll have you know my mither is among them.’

Willa grinned. This woman was awesome. If she had half of her chutzpah when she spoke to Martina, she’d probably be exec producer by now.

‘Your mither?’ The producer fuzzed his lips. ‘Next you’ll be telling me she did this as a wee one to keep food on the table.’