Newhame – Chapter 6

Henry Higgenbotham would have been green with envy if he could have seen Coyote with a warm woman draped over him, as he pulled a lonely ready meal from the microwave that night. Not that he fancied Cynthia Blyth. He knew her – well, knew of her – of course. He fancied he had a line on every major player in Newhame by now. No, not Cynthia – there was now only one Newhame resident he wanted draping over him, and he was going to see her at nine o’clock the following night.

He dumped his chicken tikka massala onto a plate, pulled a bottle of beer from the tiny fridge, opened it, and carried his dinner out to the porch of the A-frame chalet.

With a sigh he slumped down on a tiny wrought-iron chair, putting the plate onto the glass top of the bistro table screwed into the wooden deck, and settled back, drinking his beer straight from the bottle, a quirk which he suspected was a hangover from his college days. He frowned. The best days of his life, for sure.

Henry pushed the food around on his plate with a fork. Normally a big eater, tonight his appetite had deserted him. He was troubled, and no amount of chicken tikka massala was going to make him feel better tonight.

He took a joyless bite of the ready meal, chewed with effort and washed it down with a slug of beer.

Looking up at the moon and chewing, he thought of all the people in the world doing the same thing, looking at the same moon, and he thought again of his home in San Francisco. Of course, logically he knew it would still be broad daylight there and the moon not yet risen but he pushed those thoughts aside.

On the night of the full moon he usually went up to an Open Circle ritual in Muir Woods, a park just north of the City, and over the Golden Gate bridge. It was sponsored by the Sausalito Children of Artemis, a local Wicca coven, and a fair few of Henry’s friends went along, and most times Henry did too.

Not that Henry was Wiccan, no, he felt uncomfortable with many aspects of the coven structure, and so-called hedge-witchery – he giggled around his mouth full of food. He just couldn’t see himself with a bubbling cauldron of love potion on the gas cooker in his tiny flat on Lombard Street.

He sighed again. He should talk. He had joined a Druid seed group in his senior year at San Francisco State, and now, 15 years later, the seed group was a Grove, and he – well, he had progressed a bit in his knowledge and practice of Druidry. He liked the ritual, and the connection it helped him feel between nature and his own spirituality; but when mention of “magick-with-a-K” was made, he always pulled down his mental blinders.

Henry didn’t really believe in magic. In fact, he didn’t really believe any of it. It made him feel better on an emotional level – invoking the four quarters, doing the seasonal communion thing with his fellow Grove members, the sense of community at the Open Circle when a variety of ritual was used at the full moon – but. But, but, but. His intellectual side was willing to humour his emotional side, but only so far. It kept a firm grip on Henry’s understanding of How Things Work, and magic just didn’t fit into any of his conceptions of the universe. And the notion of the God and Goddess, and the spirits of the four quarters, etc., Henry’s intellect was willing to entertain as archetypes of natural forces, and our relationship with them, but nothing beyond that. As for the four elements …. hah! 

But looking up at the moon, Henry felt lonely for his friends, and the loneliness increased his longing to be able to drop his intellectual barrier and simply believe. Blind faith might be a prerequisite for magic and miracles. Henry ate the last bite of the crappy little T.V. dinner, and drank the last slug of the anaemic lager. If he needed blind faith before he believed in magic, then it would never come. The thought of overriding his intellect – no, that way madness lay. He thought, briefly, of his father, but pushed the thought aside abruptly as he stood and took his dishes inside, and left the moon in possession of the night.

Newhame – Chapter 5

Later that same day, as evening came climbing up from the sea, Coyote Star-Raven sat on the headland that reached out on the south of Newhame Bay, and looked at the full moon. It had risen up from the North Sea as the night drew on, and the last dregs of sunlight faded from the western sky.

Behind him and higher up sat the Manse, the old residence of the minister of Newhame Parish, back when there had been a minister and a parish. Fiona’s late husband, Colonel Desmond Blyth, bought the crumbling pile in the ’70s and restored it, and now it shed gentle light into the evening.

Coyote glanced back at the Manse, then turned his attention once more to the moon, pulling his large rough woollen coat tightly around his shoulders.

“Thank you, à Bhrighid, for giving me a kick up the arse and waking me up.” He said this aloud with a chuckle. He’d finally made the split with Shirley Maggs earlier that day. He rubbed his shaved head in the darkness. Why had he thought it would be difficult? When he hesitantly suggested that maybe it was time for him to be on his way, Shirley seemed quite cheerful about it. Not that it particularly surprised him. The sex had been fantastic, but they were never going to be a “couple” for Christ’s sake. Coyote was her excuse to get away from a dead-end marriage, and he had been happy enough to oblige, and shack up with her in her new digs in Edinburgh. Still, she might have shown a bit of reluctance, for the sake of good form. Instead, she had his bag packed and him out the door with an affectionate kiss and a perfunctory invitation to share her bed anytime he liked, and though she managed not to slam the door in his face, he was left standing there in the hallway wondering what the hell had just happened.

He chuckled again, rummaging through his voluminous coat pockets. He found a tin whistle, put it to his lips and played. It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a tune, but the notes were strong and clear. They meandered up and down the scales, jumped up thirds, trilled and danced, and at last he held a long plaintive note to the end of his breath. It filled the air, and faded.

Behind him, up towards the Manse, he heard a door creak – it was one of those late summer nights when sounds carried far. He glanced back and could make out a figure silhouetted against the light pouring from the rear entrance to the Manse. He waited, then heard what he had expected – the crunch of gravel, a gate swinging open with a creak, then shut with a rattle of its latch, then quiet footfalls over the rough grass out to where he sat.

He heard a low woman’s voice say, “Coyote, are you out there? One cough for yes, two for no.” Coyote barked out a laugh, and was answered with a chuckle in return. A moment later Cynthia Blyth plopped down next to him on the grass.

The strike of a match showed Cynthia’s square face, the spit of her father, poor thing, as she held it to a fag and drew a lungful of smoke. Automatically, out of sheer sociable habit, Coyote pulled his crane bag out from under his shirt, drew out his papers and dope, and quickly rolled himself a joint. He felt pretty spacey already, on a natural high – his favourite kind – but there was something about smoking together under a full moon that was aesthetically irresistible. He reached over, took the fag from Cynthia’s lips, touched the ember to the end of his joint as he dragged on it, then carefully replaced it in her mouth.

Cynthia stretched her legs out in front of her, leaning back on her elbows, tipping her head up to the stars. Around her fag she said, “So you left that bimbo Shirley?”

Coyote smiled, let the silence fill out the question, before he said, “You might say that.” He took another drag of the joint, held in the smoke, then let it out in puffs as he said, “It was by mutual agreement.”

“Daft cow,” said Cynthia languidly, lying right back on the grass, blowing smoke into the air.

Coyote said nothing, eyes fixed on the moon, emptying his thoughts. Cynthia would tell him everything he needed to know, eventually. Patience was the one great power he had cultivated over the years, and it was the one simple piece of magic he knew would never fail him.

“Aye, a busy, busy day today my friend,” continued Cynthia, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on her hand. “Mum told me all about it as soon as I got in. Christ she could talk the hind legs off the Easter Bunny. Hah!”

She snorted out a big puff of smoke, and her chuckle turned into a hacking cough. Coyote took another small puff of his joint, then carefully extinguished it by pinching the end.

“Bloody things,” Cynthia said with distaste, flicking her burning fag end out towards the edge of the cliff. It soared, spinning, sparks flying until it disappeared over the edge. Coyote thought it was beautiful.

Cynthia studied him in the moonlight. She reclined again, still on her side so she could see him. What was it about this scruffy little man that fascinated her – that seemed to fascinate most women (apart from that Morag McKillop, cold, enigmatic fish that she was) – by rights, Cynthia, a high-flying advocate in Edinburgh, wouldn’t look twice at a man like him except to drop a spare copper into his cap.

She reached out and patted his knee. “I suppose you already know all about Henry Higgenbotham and his little friends.”

“Hmm. The name’s familiar – American bloke?”

“Don’t pretend with me, Coyote – he who knows all and sees all.” She shuffled over and lay her head in his lap. He automatically stroked her hair and felt her body relax against him.

He said, “Nah, honestly Cynthia, I’ve seen him about, and wondered, but I don’t ken anything beyond that.”

Cynthia was sceptical, but she felt so relaxed and comfortable that she couldn’t be arsed to argue the point.

“Apparently Mum went into The Silver Darlings of all places, solely in order to snoop.”

“She’s nothing if not dedicated to her art.”

Cynthia grinned, and snuggled more comfortably against Coyote. On another night she might have pushed it further. Ever since she had first met him, picking him up hitchhiking at the turnoff from the old A1 trunk road onto the North Berwick road, she’d wondered what he’d be like, but even though they had become close, neither of them had pushed the boundaries that far. Not yet, anyway. And it wouldn’t be tonight. Cynthia felt every ounce of tension flow from her as he stroked her hair in the moonlight.

“Mmm … anyway, from what she gathered, Higgenbotham is here as an agent for someone else, and he’s meant to be buying up property around the place. To what end, however, was not discussed.”

“But he’ll not have had much luck.”

Cynthia glanced up at Coyote sharply. “What makes you say that?” she asked, trying not to let her lawyer’s mind click into place too rigidly. “What have you heard then? Don’t play innocent with me, I’ve sent better men than you to the gallows, my lad.”

Coyote snorted. “Ah, the good old days, eh?”

Cynthia reached up and poked him in the ribs. “Don’t change the subject, Mr Star-Raven, if that is your real name.” She started to tickle him in earnest.

He laughed girlishly, and though he started out above her, her superior weight and single-mindedness meant that she soon had him pinned beneath her.

Weakly laughing he gasped, “If it please the court, I plead non compos mentis ….” He trailed off as she held his gaze with a suddenly serious look, her eyes going wide, her lips parting. Although mostly a silhouette between him and the moon, he felt her intent in every muscle of his body, as she shifted her body against his and paused ….

Again the back door to the Manse slammed open, light streamed out and a much younger female voice called out, “Mum? Mum, are you out there?”

Cynthia breathed out. “Oh shit … Lydia …” She collapsed on top of Coyote, then called out, her cheek pressed against his chest, “Yes, just coming in my love.”

Newhame – Chapter 4

Morag never asked if Fiona had an afternoon sherry habit, although if she did it was unlikely to ever lead her to The Silver Darlings. She couldn’t imagine the older woman deigning to step foot in the place even though it was clean, well-run, and the only public house in Newhame – except in pursuit of a bit of knowledge that couldn’t be gained by any other means.

Months afterwards, when comparing notes with Henry, Morag pointed out that it was because it was a public house that Fiona was unlikely to frequent it, not wishing to mingle with those not of her own choosing; but Henry wondered.

“If that’s true, then she must know Tim Leary pretty well from a different context. As soon as she came in he went straight up to her, gave her a big kiss, and showed her to a table near the bar, presumably so he could have her near him. I did note she made a little fuss and insisted on sitting by the window on the other side of the door from us. But, you know, I was kind of busy myself ….”

Morag raised her eyebrows when she heard about the little moment of affection between Tim and Fiona, and wondered what it could mean.

She wondered for all of five seconds before Henry rolled over and kissed her.

If Henry could have foreseen this tender moment that day in The Silver Darlings, when, instead of Jeffrey Arnott, Jeffrey’s wife Isabella wafted into the room, his faith in the rightness of destiny might have kept him further from the edge of panic. He kept staring at the door as it closed behind her, trying by sheer force of will alone to conjure the presence of Jeffrey, the only man Henry knew who could curb the enthusiasms of his wife.

Henry, being an American, was fuzzy on his southern European ethnography, and never could figure out where Isabella was meant to be from. He pondered gloomily as she came up and enthused all over him: French?

“‘Enry, how marvelous, why is your mobile turned off, you naughty naughty boy? I had to have Leo call the bar to intercept you in case you became too impatient and left before we arrived.”

Italian maybe? She was dark enough, but her bleached blond hair made the ethnic identification even more difficult.

Shooting a glance at Mrs Blyth, by the other window, in a silent plea to join them and spare him the horror of dealing with Isabella one-on-one, he lied, “Mobile? Oh, right, cell phone. Don’t have one, can’t stand the creepy little things.” Unfortunately, Mrs Blyth was writing in a little notebook, sipping a glass of sherry, and only looking up to stare for long moments in the direction of Tim Leary.

“No mobile phone? ‘Enry, you cannot be telling the truth! Only Albanian peasants do not have mobile phones in these days and ages. Leo! Leo!” She looked around and seemed completely at a loss that Leo, her chauffeur and bodyguard, had not followed her into the pub. Henry smiled ruefully. He had probably legged it to the tea shop for a few quiet minutes away from his mistress.

“Never mind,” she said, although she looked the tiniest bit panicky now. “‘Enry, be a lovely man and buy a drink for me, please? Campari if it is here.”

Tim Leary volunteered from cheerfully from the bar, “Sorry Missus, there was a run on Campari this week, and we’re waiting for a new shipment. Should be here later in the week, you’re welcome to come back then. Or you could try something different ….” he continued, ignoring Henry’s discreet hand signals to the effect that Tim should not go the extra mile to persuade Isabella to make herself at home.

“Why you lovely man, what do you recommend for a woman of delicate constitution such as I?”

“I’ve just the thing, Missus. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Henry watched Tim closely. He was afraid if Isabella locked eyes with him he would either become enslaved by some evil enchantment, or more likely, turned instantly to stone.

Isabella lowered her voice and leaned conspiratorially towards Henry. If either of them had bothered to notice, Fiona had at this point was staring out to sea with a look of extreme concentration, her pen poised mid-air over her little notebook: you could almost see her ears swiveling for maximum reception.

“‘Enry, Jeffrey and I have been waiting impatiently for your reports. They have been irregular and not enough information – too full of patches. Comprendé?”

Spanish perhaps? He tried to formulate an answer that made sense. Was Tim pulling the lever of the Guinness tap, albeit only briefly?

“It’s complicated,” Henry said, looking briefly at Isabella’s impassive features. You never knew where you stood with the compulsively botoxed, he mused to himself. He re-focused on Tim, who was replacing a bottle of Wild Turkey on the rack behind the bar.

Isabella snapped impatiently, her voice rising a notch. “How complicated, darling? You were sent to buy some property, and keep us informed. To keep your eyes, ears and nose open. To sniff darling, like the bloody hound.”

“Bloodhound,” corrected Henry calmly, his high school English teacher kicking into place momentarily.

Before she could snap back he looked at her fiercely in the eye, which seemed to startle her into a sweet second or two of silence. “It’s difficult,” he said slowly and deliberately, keeping his eyes on her. “The people in this town are not idiots. You can’t just waltz in here and start snapping up property for a song. Frankly Izzy,” (Henry enjoyed the wince on her face as he used a nickname he knew she hated) “the budget you’ve given me is ludicrous. You are asking the impossible.”

“It is enough,” Isabella snapped, rallying. “There are … influences … at work, about which you don’t know nothing, about which you don’t need to know nothing.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’ve cast some ridiculous spell. Goddamned Wiccan mumbo-jumbo. Well, my dear, you can tell Jeffrey his magic doesn’t seem to be working here. Maybe his spiritual influence doesn’t quite reach here from San Francisco.”

Isabella drew herself up haughtily. “You are scoffing, ‘Enry. It is not wise to scoff at what you’re not comprehending.”

“Wisdom was never my strong suit,” muttered Henry, looking around for any excuse to get up and leave.

Isabella reached over the table and grasped Henry’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “You have been given a job to do, ‘Enry,” she said in steely tones. Then, as Tim advanced with her drink and another, unordered pint of Guinness for Henry, her voice turned to a purr and she stroked his hand with her fingertips. “I know you don’t like to send us empty reports, ‘Enry darling, but even the smallest details can be useful to Jeffrey. Thank you sir!” She beamed at Tim as he set the drinks down. “What is in mine, please?”

“Now, I couldn’t be telling you that, could I missus? All the fancy bartenders in San Francisco would be serving my special potion with the week.”

Isabella laughed what she probably supposed was a delicate tinkle, but which made every one in the pub wince momentarily.

In the resultant silence that lay in the wake of this unexpectedly annoying giggle, Isabella’s mobile went off. Beethoven’s Symphony Number Five, noted Henry, musing that even when you think you have a person pegged, they can still manage to surprise you. Isabella fished the tiny phone from her handbag and spoke into it.

“Jeffrey? Darling! Yes, I’m here with ‘Enry.” She took a sip of her drink; her eyes lit up and she pursed a kiss at Tim who was hovering nearby. He grinned and retired to the bar, seemingly satisfied with a job well done.

And the drink seemed to be doing its job as well. Isabella was giggling again. “I don’t know what’s come over me, darling, I just feel so happy. Yes, it’s a glorious day here, sunshiny, oh Jeffrey, you are so right, this is the perfect spot for our centre.”

Henry looked quickly around: Fiona was scribbling frantically in her notebook, Tim was polishing glasses assiduously; yes, it was obvious every word Isabella uttered was being mentally filed away and would soon be common knowledge the length and breadth of the village.

Dogs

in my dreams they run ahead
runners slice white crystal shards of ice
ptarmigan explodes from snow banked high
against a tangled tree felled
by blade or spate or snowfall too thick
I am too thick to think quickly and

in my dreams they run ahead
we follow the winding river trail
where the water wells up we cut upriver
clinging close to the bank
when the banks run close together
winding down the center where the ice is wide and

in my dreams they run ahead
sail tails held high
in this immense non-sense of no-man’s land
though the snow tells me no tale I can hear
all their ears are pricked to pierce
what mystery lies thickly all around and

in my dreams they run ahead
where the music that is not imagined
is the percussion of shifting snowshoes
the rattling chains and their own chant
the panting keening whine
the time varies but the lyrics stay the same and

in my dreams they run ahead
in their dreams they hunt their hunt
a string of crystal stars bound tight
the bite bound the snarl beaten down
eyes glitter at the slightest sound
Drops of blood fall from their ice-cut paws and

in my dreams they run ahead
never tiring always glancing back
gauging how well the leader in the back
paces the leader in front of the pack
at either end we stretch a warm mobility between
find neither lacking and no one slacking
her mind and mine keep our world stretched taut and

in my dreams they run ahead

The Running of the Deer

Running of the Deer:

(music files on Pure Volume)

[The tune to this song is inspired by the traditional American song "Pretty Polly".]

Come with me and be my love
In the Springtime of the year
Dance joyous with the honeybee
And with the running deer

chorus:
May your heart always be happy
And your singing always clear
May you run forever fair and free
With the running of the deer

Come with me and light the fires
That promise fertile crops
Gather flowers from the woodlands
And from the mountaintops

(chorus)

Drive the cattle through the flames
And leap the raging fire
Look into my loving eyes
And feel my heart’s desire

(chorus)

By hart and hare and trout and wren
By land and sky and sea
By the running Lord of Stags
And the dancing honeybee

(chorus)

By the spin of moon and stars
And the cooing turtle dove
In the springtime of the year
Come and be my love

May your heart always be happy
And your singing always clear
May you run forever fair and free
With the running of the deer

Newhame – Chapter 3

Morag was surprised enough to be accosted at the door of her shop later that day as she was locking up, by none other than Fiona Blyth, mistress of The Manse at Newhame. Morag only knew her slightly, for even in such a small village as Newhame one has one’s circles, and though one might be acquainted with a person, it wasn’t the same as knowing them.

Fiona put her hand on Morag’s arm firmly and said in hushed tones, “I have news, Morag, about that man that was in your shop today, and about … oh, such a lot! Is there somewhere we can talk?”

If it had been anyone else Morag might have been surprised at the reference to Mr Higgenbotham being in her shop. Fiona had a knack for being in the right place at the right time where gossip was concerned.

She hesitated. She was enough of a realist to realise gossip and intrigue was the life blood of any village intelligence system, and what with all the recent covert events in and around Newhame, she would be daft to turn away the most well-informed woman in town, and one who was evidently dying to pass a juicy item on to her.

Morag’s hesitation was based on the fact hat the closest private place to retire to was her own house, and she was somehow loath to open it’s doors to Fiona. She knew as soon as Fiona stepped into her house, it would cease to be her private place, but be discussed ad nauseum amongst the village crones. Morag sighed inside herself. Why should she be any different from other people in the village? People visit people – people talk about other people’s houses. With a sense that everything in her life was about to change, she said, “Come up for a cup of tea and tell me all about it, Fiona.”

Morag led the way up the short flight of steps to the door of her house, unlocked it, and went inside leaving it open for Fiona to follow.

If she had expected to be ushered into a witch’s lair (and in truth Fiona halfway did expect it), then she was disappointed. Morag watched amused as Fiona took a good look round the sitting room. Apart from the Green Man door knocker, which she had examined minutely as she passed it, it could have been any single woman’s sitting room. Bright, airy – or as airy as a stone cottage would allow – as it was on the top floor of the house, Velux windows in the roof let in plenty of light, and a large window in the gable end, next to the door, looked out over the sea, and framed the Bass Rock perfectly.

Sparsely furnished – a couch and two chairs around a coffee table, walls lined with books – but no pentagrams scrawled on the floor in blood … in fact, not a pentagram in sight.

The only thing that might have been said to be unusual was the amount of original art on the walls. And modern art, at that. As the inhabitant of the former Kirk Manse, Fiona was surrounded in her own house by dusty portraits of former village and county worthies. She really must get rid of them some day, she thought as she looked around at the abstracts, the impressionistic landscapes, one or two collages and framed pieces with found objects enclosed in a grid-work of stained wood.

“Those are my own work,” said Morag, bringing in a pot of tea and china cups on a tray, and placing them on the coffee table. She had caught Fiona peering closely at one of the pieces of framed objects.

“Really? I wonder you don’t sell them in the shop. I’m sure you would sell dozens of them. Still, then you would have to set up a studio, and spend all your time finding little things to put in them. No, you’re right, it would be too tedious. Just leave these few here to mystify and perplex – and delight – your guests. In any case, they are quite pretty.”

After having satisfactorily argued both sides of the case and come out on top, as usual, Fiona finally folded herself into one of the armchairs, and took up a cup of steaming, straw-coloured liquid.

Taking up the teacup and saucer, Fiona was overcome with mixed emotions. She glanced sharply at Morag, who was already sipping at her cup. Fiona was charmed and strangely grateful for the china cup. One only ever got tea these days in chunky motorway cafe-style chipped cups, or, even worse, mugs. She shuddered. People thought by putting art reproductions or banal witticisms on the sides of what only properly belonged in a workman’s canteen, it would raise these vessels to the status of proper household china. No. A perfectly formed, bone china teacup, finely balanced, with a subtle floral pattern – like the one sitting elegantly on the matching saucer in her hand – these were truly the only appropriate way to convey tea from pot to lip.

But … but but but. This wasn’t tea. It was a herbal infusion of some sort, and Fiona normally held no truck with such nonsense. Good honest Darjeeling, black with one sugar, that her usual source of thirst-quenching nourishment. She eyed Morag again, who sat placidly watching her. They understood one another perfectly well. Fiona would hesitate at the brew, but she would be defenceless in the face of fine china.

“Ahem,” she delicately cleared her throat, gamely taking the cup from the saucer. “What sort of … infusion is this, Morag, dear?”

Morag smiled openly now as she poured more of the liquid into her own cup.

“Aye, I hate it when people call it ‘tea’ as well,” she said. Fiona’s subtle barbs were wasted on her, and she wanted to get them out of the way at once. “the French call it ’tisane’, but ‘infusion’ is less pretentious, don’t you agree? And it’s my own blend – try it. I’m really interested in your opinion. It’s something I am considering selling in the shop.”

Hesitantly, Fiona lifted the cup and automatically blew across the liquid’s surface before she touched it to her lips, and sipped.

The taste was subtle, almost bland, so that before she could properly say how it tasted, she was struck by how it made her feel.

The hot infusion sent a warmth all the way down her gullet, which seemed to radiate into her body with a golden glow. A tiny smile came to her lips – all of a sudden a memory of childhood – lying on her back in her grandfather’s hayloft, watching summer shafts of light create columns of swirling dust in the air. It was itchy in the hay, bits were caught up in her dress and in her pigtails. the dust in the loft made her nose tickle, and she raised her hand to scratch it -

“Oh!” Fiona blinked. Where was she? Yes, here with Morag in Newhame, sitting in a chair and drinking this marvellous infusion. “How extraordinary,” she whispered.

“So you like it?” Morag’s eyes glinted. Fiona’s reverie had not escaped her notice. Good, good, very good indeed.

“Yes, yes I do, surprisingly enough. You see, my dear, I am normally a Darjeeling woman, I don’t usually drink herbal infusions, but this … what’s in it, may I ask?”

Morag smiled the same smile she had given Henry Higgenbotham earlier, and gave the same answer. “Trade secrets, Fiona, trade secrets. A girl has to keep some mystery about her.”

“How right you are, Morag, so many women forget that simple fact these days – and they wonder why the world has become so vulgar.” She raised the cup to her lips again for a second, longer sip.

Fiona closed her eyes when she felt the warmth spread through her. She could clearly see now, her Grandfather’s farmyard. She was standing in the upper door of the hayloft, looking through the opening and down onto the solid stone farmhouse, the yard of hard-packed earth between the house and the barn, where chickens scratched in the dust; and one of Grandfather’s hounds lay spledered out in the shade of a spreading Rowan tree outside the back door. He was dreaming, and kicked his legs, running somewhere, far away where herds of monstrous elk roamed the tundra. Fiona took it all in, the dog, the yard, her Grandmother glimpsed moving in the kitchen through an open window, and in the distance her Grandfather on a tractor, ploughing a field.

She reached up to push a strand of fly-away black hair from her eyes.

And opened her eyes again in Morag’s sitting room. Morag was sitting back, holding her cup to her lips but not drinking – watching Fiona intently through half-closed lids.

“Well,” said Fiona, setting her cup down in the saucer, “do let me know when you decide to sell this. I’ll definitely pop round and pick some up. It would make a change.”

“I will,” said Morag, “but now, Fiona, you said you had some news?” She leaned forward, and Fiona was startled by the almost hungry look on Morag’s face, and for the first time that afternoon wondered if maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to wangle her way into Morag’s house. All of a sudden Fiona wondered who was wangling whom.

Fiona pulled herself up brusquely. After all, she was the one with the news, and Morag was in the position of supplicant, so she would, in her own inimitable manner, spin the yarn out to a goodly length.

Morag caught the change in bearing, and immediately became submissive, leaning back on the couch and lowering her eyes. Give the old hag enough rope, she thought – ungraciously, she knew.

“Earlier today, just after Mr Higgenbotham came up your steps, I happened to pop into The Silver Darlings for an afternoon sherry ….”