Newhame – Chapter 10

“Sing for your Mammy, wee canny manny,
Sing for your Mammy when Daddy’s awa’
Sing for the fishies, and sing for the sojers,
Sing for them a’, aye the great and the sma’”

Sleepy eyes stare at the smoky coal fire … a few meagre lumps, carefully hoarded, in the grate. But no worries. A mucky thumb in his mouth, the smell of his Mammy’s body and her soft breasts to lean against, rocking gently. Her song like a soft breeze blowing through his soul. Then, a choked sob brings his head up. Tears … Mammy’s no supposed tae greet. Fascinated, he sits up, reaches to touch her grimy cheek with his wee fingers. He hasn’t got the language to know what to say or to ask, or how to make it better, so he puts his arms around her neck and pats her head, because that’s what she does for him when he’s in tears, when he scrapes his knee, or the local children call him the “Deil’s bairn”

But now his beautiful mother smiles through her tears, wiping them away. “Dinnae worry yersel’, Angus,” says haltingly. “Och, I was only thinking on your faither, and the thought was making Mammy sad. I just miss him . . . .” Another sob, more tears. But she controls herself now, with Angus’s piercing green eyes looking boldly into her own. “You’re the spit of him, wee man, so you are.” She folds her arms around him, and all’s right with the world again.

Jeff Arnott blinked his eyes open, bewildered. That was a new one. He usually came back from his regressions angry, determined for revenge. But now – he rubbed his eyes, finding it hard to return to the here and now. The sound of the young mother’s voice still lilting gently in his head, the smell of the reeking fire still acrid in his nostrils, mixed with the smell of Angus’s Mother.

The feeling of love had been so sweet, and a sadness welled up in Jeff’s heart. He sighed, made a concentrated effort to re-centre himself, looking around the room. Bare cream walls, a few pieces of bespoke blond maple furniture upholstered in white, a frosted glass coffee table in front of the wheelchair he sat in.

He reached out to the table to touch the objects on it: a burning candle, a stick of incense, an ancient patch of tartan fabric. He extinguished the candle and incense, then gently fingered the tartan rag. In the watery light of the window it was faded, the colours almost gone, but the weave was still tight, across all the years and in spite of all it had been through . . .

- A scream. A man’s leering face. A harsh, guttural voice: “Ye’ll no kill ma cattle ony mair, Mary Arnott!” And a tight stricture around the throat, choking -

Jeff dropped the fabric from his trembling fingers, and clutched his head. What the fuck was that? It had never come on so hard and fast before, without careful meditation and regression. He leaned back in his chair, taking deep breaths. His hands groped for the wheels, and he pushed the chair back from the table, then rolled over to one of the tall windows.

Outside it was thick cold mist. Typical San Francisco autumn day. The sun was trying to cut through overhead, as Jeff swung the window open to let the sharp air into the room. He glanced across the street, where the hillside steeply fell away. Without the mist, there was a stunning view of Golden Gate Park and the sea. Not today, though. Today, the world ended, fading into a shifting mass of pearl grey.

Still, he had the street. The stately row of Victorian mansions, of which his own home was one, always soothed him, reassured him of his status in the world, and now he let his eye linger on the houses opposite, tracing the details of the ornate architecture, and he was conscious of his heartbeat slowing . . . he was back in his own world now, fully recovered from his regression.

Jeff closed the window again, and wheeled himself out of the room, carefully locking the door behind him. He had left the candle, incense and cloth on the table. Of the many rooms in Jeff’s mansion, that one had one purpose only, and he always left it in a state of readiness for the next session.

Adolpho, his private assistant, poked his head out of the office along the landing, and waved to catch Jeff’s attention. “Everything okay?” he signed.

Jeff grunted, and signed back, “Yes, yes, now come along, we’ve got work to do.”

He rolled away without waiting for Adolpho, slotting himself into the personal lift. As it sank down to the ground floor, Jeff reviewed his tasks for the day. He still had a lot to do before his plane departed for Heathrow that evening.

1. Finalise the San Francisco contingent of speakers coming over for the Witches of Lothian Conference.
2. Go over Higgenbotham’s reports again, make a decision on how to move forward.
3. Speak to his solicitors about the status of the purchase of the Newhame chalet park.
4. Pray.

On the ground floor, Jeff wheeled into the main living room, with the magnificent bay window that held another view, normally, across to the Golden Gate Bridge and Mt. Tamalpais in Marin. For some reason, Jeff felt comforted by being visually blocked in today.

No distractions, he thought to himself. That’s good. And he proceeded to get down to work.

#

Later that day, as they were driven the long drive down the peninsula to SFO, Jeff had to take Adolpho in hand. His PA had been sulking since Jeff told him earlier he wouldn’t be able to take Sandy, his boyfriend, along on this trip with him.

“It’s not fair!” signed Adolpho in the car as they slowed to a momentary halt in the crush of traffic. “Sandy hasn’t been back to Scotland in five years. If you could have seen his face when I said he might be able to come with us – “

Jeff cut him off. “You shouldn’t have said anything to him without clearing it with me first.” Adolpho slumped back against the seat. Jeff sighed. “Look,” he signed, “I don’t have anything against Sandy. I like Sandy. It think he’s good for you.” Adolpho straightened up a bit at this, let himself smile. “But we need to focus on this trip,” Jeff continued. “There’s a lot of hard work, and I’m going to be relying on you. And not just for this stuff.” Jeff fluttered his hands in the air to indicate the signing that Adolpho translated on his behalf.

Adolpho giggled, and Jeff smiled back. That was better. “No,” he went on, “I rely on your judgement as well. Sometimes I get caught up in the emotion of being there, and I need an objective mind.” He sighed and looked out the window.

Adolpho touched his arm. “Why do you do this?” he signed. “Why do you put yourself through this upset? It’s not good for you – I worry about you sometimes, you know.”

Jeff was touched. He took Adolpho’s hand, squeezed it, but didn’t try to explain. Sometimes he couldn’t understand himself what drove his actions, what made him return to Newhame time and again, what made him want the people of that obscure Scottish village to suffer.

Newhame – Chapter 9

Later, after the washing, soothing, bandaging, undressing, and nursing had passed, and Henry was sound asleep in Morag’s guest bedroom, she and Lydia sat up in the living room with steaming mugs of cocoa.

“Sometimes only chocolate will do,” Morag had said when she brought the drinks out. She now sat on the couch with her bandaged foot up. Lydia had had to do the honours of ministering to Morag’s foot, under the older woman’s tutelage, and surprised herself when she found the blood and sliced skin hadn’t put her off at all. She would have been the first to cry off any first aid under normal circumstances, playing up to her own self image of someone who wasn’t much good with body parts and fluids.

And yet she had done it, almost cheerfully if she had to be perfectly honest. Certainly the way Morag had assumed that she was intelligent and competent enough to follow her quietly given instructions had bolstered Lydia’s confidence, and somehow the practical tasks of nursing had calmed and centred her after the shock and upheaval of the night’s events.

Now, sitting and sipping cocoa, she answered Morag’s simple question: “What happened?”

Lydia cast her mind back. “I was at the bar,” she said finally, “talking to Mr Leary. He’s going to give me some work at the pub and we were talking about it.”

Morag smiled, and Lydia smiled back. That Lydia was too young to legally work there, but that her beauty and charm had easily unlocked Tim’s already shaky moral code about things like employment laws, was understood but unspoken between the two women. Morag’s smile, however, was bittersweet, foreseeing the day, that must inevitably come, when Lydia’s charm would fail. But that day was still far in the future.

“Anyway,” Lydia continued, “I was talking to Mr Leary at the bar, and then these men behind me started arguing. It was horrible. Maggs the Butcher – “

“Mr Maggs,” corrected Morag.

Lydia stopped and raised her eyebrows at Morag. Morag was no sounding like her Nan, to whom Lydia usually paid no attention when it came to matters of etiquette. But in Morag’s correction, Lydia read a quiet insistence. And for some strange reason, she recognised Morag’s authority in a way she hadn’t with her own Mum and Nan.

“Mr Maggs”, Lydia said, dropping her eyes. “Mr Maggs was shouting at that guy, the one with the crazy name.”

“You know his name,” said Morag.

Lydia blushed. “Coyote,” she said. “The one who’s shagging Mr Maggs’s wife.” She said this in a challenging tone, but Morag said nothing. It was the truth, after all.

“So they were arguing,” Morag pressed her.

“No, not really,” answered Lydia. It was more like Mr Maggs and his friends were shouting at him, and Coyote was just . . . just listening.”

Morag sighed. In fact she had warned Coyote about his affair with Shirley Maggs, particularly if he wanted to keep his association with Newhame. After all, Jack Maggs was born and bred, and despite his sometimes unpleasant personality, and the undoubted fact that he and Shirley were eminently unsuited for each other, he was in the end part of this community on a deep level, and Coyote was not. On top of that, Coyote, through name and appearance, had chosen to set himself apart from society even more. Morag knew from experience that to be different and accepted required tact, diplomacy, and discretion, qualities that Coyote had not exhibited in this case. She was only afraid that now she would lose a valuable supplier and sometime friend and associate.

Both women had gone quiet, Morag deep in her thoughts, and Lydia trying to make sense of her confused memory.

“It was weird,” Lydia finally said, “It was like Coyote had gone out of his way to talk to Maggs – Mr Maggs.”

“How do you mean?”

“When the shouting first started,” the young woman continued, eyes shut, cocoa mug poised in front of her lips, “we all turned around at the bar – me, Mr Leary, Hamish Donaldson was there too, and Mr Higgenbotham – but we couldn’t see them at first. There was still a bar full of people, but then it was like a curtain drew back and there they all were in the corner – only Mr Maggs was still sitting, he looked way surprised, and Coyote was standing over him, almost like he was apologising. Of course I couldn’t really hear what he was saying because of the shouting, but had the look – he had the feeling of someone apologising. The feeling I got was that he could have slipped out, but instead had gone looking for Mr Maggs.”

“What did you do?”

“Me?” Lydia looked surprised at the idea that she might have been aught but a mere observer. “I didn’t – no, wait, I did do something. I started to go over . . . . ” Her eyes were blank, lost in that moment in the pub. “Why didn’t I remember . . . ? I walked right over and I was going to say something daft like ‘Settle down, boys’, and I reached out to put my hand on Coyote’s shoulder. Mr Maggs saw that, and he went dead mental. He almost screamed like, he said, “DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!”

Morag started at the look on Lydia’s face as she shouted out Maggs’s words. For a fleeting second she could see Jack’s face in Lydia’s – ugly, wounded, desperate, and yet protective at the same time. The split second passed, and it seemed to have caught Lydia by surprise too. “Sorry,” she said with a little smile and a shrug, “didn’t mean to get carried away like that.”

Morag composed herself. The more she saw of Lydia, the more she felt there was something in the young woman – some potential for the Craft, maybe? She was starting to feel an excitement deep inside here that she barely understood herself, but she put a soothing mask over her features, and said, “Go on.”

“Then . . . I don’t know for sure . . . it all happened so fast. I heard Mr Leary call out my name, and Mr Maggs – well, I think he tipped the table over, sort of flung it up away from him – glasses were flying, crashing, breaking – Coyote shouted something, he sort of covered his face with his hands, like this – ” Lydia threw her arms up in front of her face, with a look of fright and determination, “- then Mr Maggs sort of lunged over at Coyote, who crouched down, and it was like a scrum of rugby players, Mr Maggs and his lot, all trying to find the ball, and it’s funny, I remember Mr Maggs going wild and shouting, “Where’s he gone, where’s the bastard gone?” Lydia smiled sheepishly about the language.

“So Coyote just disappeared,” mused Morag. “Now why does that not surprise me?”

“Disappear?” asked Lydia, baffled, as baffled as Maggs must have felt. “But how could he? There was nowhere for him to go.”

“Never mind,” said Morag. “What happened next?”

“Well, like I said, Mr Maggs went doo-lally after that, tipping over tables and chucking chairs around. One caught Mr Higgenbotham a scrape across his head, that’s how he got the cut. Mr Higgenbotham got to me first, and he was trying to edge me out of the pub when the chair leg caught him. In fact, it was the very chair Mr Maggs chucked through the front window of the pub.”

Morag felt warmly about the reserves of courage and decency that must lie beneath Henry’s somewhat bumbling, self-effacing exterior.

“What about Tim and Hamish?” she asked. “What were they doing all this time?”

“All this time?” Lydia snorted. “You make it sound like there was loads of time to do anything in. There wasn’t. All that I just told you took like, 20 seconds. Mr Leary and Mr Donaldson – you know Mr Donaldson?”

“Yes, yes, go on with your story.”

Lydia frowned. She was getting annoyed at being the only one giving out information here – the only one revealing anything. She pursed her lips and gave Morag a dark look, before deciding against throwing a strop. Usually a creature of impulse, Lydia felt a well of patience deep inside here she hadn’t known existed. She would wait and she would learn, as she instinctively knew getting cross and pressing Morag was absolutely not the way to get the older woman to open up – but open up about what? Lydia felt confused, and very weary. She let her face rest in her hands for a long moment, and then, suddenly, she burst into tears.

#

Enough was enough. It was time for Lydia to go home. On the way out, Morag first looked in on Henry, and brushed her fingers across his hair as he slept, then leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then, outside, she checked that the fox was still there. Seeing that he was, she felt easy about leaving Henry for the 45 minutes or so she would be out.

The walk along the High Street to the Park and across to the Manse was a slow and halting one. In the street lamp light, Morag could see along to where the Silver Darlings sat, quiet now, and almost derelict-looking with a large piece of plywood where the window had been. The glass was cleared up – Morag’s foot throbbed, but she was determined to walk along with Lydia, to whom, in typical teenager fashion, it never occurred that Morag might be better off not walking on it just yet. No matter. Tonight was an exceptional night in many ways.

At the door of the Manse, Morag wrapped her arms around Lydia, and the girl sank into her embrace.
“Lydia,” she said, “now might not be the best time, but I’d like you to come along to the shop for a chat.”

“What about?” Lydia blinked sleep-heavy eyes.

“Some work . . . listen, we’ll talk later. I’ll ring or come round tomorrow night – ” She stopped, chuckling. “I mean, tonight, to see how you’re getting on. Now go inside and have a good long sleep. Thank goodness it’s the weekend, eh? No school anyway.”

The girl turned to put her key in the lock. “Tell Mr Higgenbotham . . . .” Her eyes started welling with tears again. She took a deep breath to compose herself. “Tell him thanks – thanks for everything, okay?”

Morag smiled. “Of course.” She kissed Lydia on the forehead. “I’ll see you tonight, dear.”

Lydia smiled back, through the tears streaming down her face. She wiped them away, then let herself into the silent, sleeping Manse.

Morag’s walk home was leisurely. The westering moon felt if anything even more magical and potent that had earlier. She realised she had left here ritual undone, her circle unclosed and broken. She sighed. Well, it was no disaster, but she would make sure and go out to put things right before the next moonrise. Her mind was easy. The fox was there, after all. In the end, she was grateful that the Goddess had sent him. She smiled at the moon and said a prayer as she walked along, favouring her sore foot, feeling the dampness of the night air, and for the first time this year, a distinct autumnal chill in the air.

Back at her house, she crouched by the hedge. The fox stood up, shook the dew off with a shudder, and stepped into the moonlight.

“Many thanks, friend,” said Morag.

“Nae bother – all in a night’s work.” He turned to go.

“Any other messages before you go?” asked Morag, anxious suddenly. She had a feeling it would be a long time before she saw the fox again, and the thought left her feeling sad.

“Nah, the owl will resume normal service next time,” said the fox, grinning. “I think you did all right tonight, by the way. I’m sure the Goddess is pleased. Now, must dash – mouths to feed and all that jazz.” And with a dash and shimmer of silver, he was away down the stairs to the shore, and gone in the night.

Weary though she was, Morag sat in a chair by Henry’s bed for the rest of the night, and didn’t go to her own bed until the rosy fingers of dawn first touched the eastern sky.

END OF PART 1

Newhame – Chapter 8

Morag was meditating peacefully in her garden down Cat Loan, bathing in the delicious honey light of the full moon. She was in the final stages of a personal ritual, aligning herself with lunar energies, in preparation for a final push on completing an exhibition for the London gallery that sold her art work.

She felt she had run low on inspiration and required intense recharging. After having lit a fire in her fire pit, cast a circle and called for her personal deities to join with her, she had been sitting motionless for about an hour now. Her awareness of the natural world around her had increased as her inner awareness worked its way through all her doubts, creative blocks, and anxieties, even touch briefly on Henry Higgenbotham. Later she would be pleasantly surprised that thoughts of Henry had produces a calming influence on the rest of her meditation, and bringing him to mind from time to time seemed to smooth the jagged edges of some of her worse self-doubt.

Morag always had a full-moon ritual – sometimes indoors, outside if the weather was at all allowing. Sometimes she worked skyclad, but tonight a simple robe seemed appropriate. She always abided by her intuition when it came to ritual. After having been a member of a strict Gardnerian coven in Edinburgh for ten years, finally relying on her own ritual needs when she went solitary had been both a burden and a liberation. But she’d been on her tod for long enough now to trust her feelings absolutely, at least when it came to Wiccan ritual and personal witchcraft.

She opened her eyes in anticipation. The Goddess often visited her during her full-moon rituals, in the form of a tawny owl, to give her encouragement, warnings, and oracular utterances the meaning of which might only become clear later. Morag smiled – it was a perfect night for flying. She fully expected the Goddess to come dropping noiselessly from the sky at any moment, to perch on top of the knee-high garden statue of Diana the Huntress which occupied a prominent corner.

A movement did catch her eye, but it wasn’t from the air. An indistinct shape slipped through a small gap in the hawthorn hedge ringing her garden, then trotted over to sit by the fire. It was a fox.

Morag looked at the fox, and the fox looked at Morag. “I wasn’t expecting you,” said Morag. She’d never seen a fox in her garden before, had never had any vulpine visitation or felt any particular affinity for them. Nevertheless, she felt – no, she knew – this wasn’t simply a stray animal exploring the back gardens of Newhame for open rubbish bins.

“The owl couldnae make it,” said the fox. “So she asked me to come instead.” He looked at the fire, scratching his ear with his hind foot. “Nice touch,” he commented, “but a wee bit warm for August, do you no think?”

Morag was faintly taken aback – nonplussed – she was so used to hearing the owl speak in feminine tones, and always a bit mystic, in the oracular vein. This fox was masculine, spoke in the local vernacular, and seemed, well . . . a little bit flippant, if truth be told. Still, you had to take divine interventions as you found them.

“Is there a message for me?” Morag asked.

“Aye there is, and it’s a load of nonsense as far as I can make out. But I’ve got a bit of personal advice of my own, if you’d care to listen to the likes of me.” The firelight glinted in the fox’s eyes.

“Speak, and I will pay heed, messenger of the Goddess.”

Morag had never seen a fox roll its eyes before. “If you want to be strict aboot it, it’s the God I serve – I’m only doing the Goddess a personal favour – I owe her one or two, so, you know . . . no big deal. I’ve got nothing else on the night.” The fox lolled its tongue out and seemed to grin. “Besides, this should be interesting.”

“What should?” said Morag, dropping her propitiating tone. “What’s going on?”

“Just a second, hen. Hold your horses. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . . ” He was looking intently up the hill to the lights of the high street. Then he leapt to his feet, quivering. “Now, doll, now haul yersel up to the high street – you’ll be needed there.” Morag hesitated. “NOW! you daft eejit, move it!”

The fox dashed back the way he came, and Morag jumped to her feet, pelted through her basement studio, up the stairs and out the front, still barefoot and berobed, then went flying up the wooden flight of steps.

She arrived, panting, at the top of Cat Loan, where the fox was sitting, looking up the street. At first Morag heard nothing but music and voices from the brightly lit Silver Darlings.

The tone of the voices changed – became angry, turned to shouting and curses. There was a crash – Morag started walking purposefully, but carefully in her bare feet, up the pavement towards the pub.

All of a sudden there was a god-almighty crash of glass – the main window of the pub crashed and flew outwards – not in neat movie style, but with huge jagged shards of plate glass – and a chair flew out into the street. The angry cries were mixed with shrieks of fright and pain – and people started pouring out.

In the middle of the crowd Henry came stumbling out – this startled Morag, because he’d been so much in her thoughts tonight – and he had his arm around young Lydia Blyth in a sheltering posture. Blood was running down his face.

Morag ran forward to him, and pulled them both of the way of the rest of the patrons coming out. She was aware of angry voices mixed with conciliatory ones inside the pub.

“Henry – Henry, all you all right?” In the street lamp light, Morag’s gentle fingers pulled strands of hair away from Henry’s forehead. In the orange glow of the sodium lights she could see a nasty cut just above the hairline.

“I’m fine, I’m fine Ms McKillop – “

“- Morag, please – “

“Morag … yes, Morag,” and the man actually smiled, which brought a surge of pleasure to Morag’s heart, to hear her name said in his voice, and to see his smile. Her eyes betrayed her pleasure, but only to Lydia, who was watching her closely, looked dishevelled and excited but otherwise unharmed.

“Morag,” Henry repeated, rolling the rich syllables around in his mouth, “Morag you’ve go to … to take Lydia … see her … ” His voice faded and he staggered against Morag. She felt him leaning against her, trembling, and she immediately threw her arms around him tightly to steady him.

“Come on, we’ll take him to yours – you’re closest,” said Lydia, in her high little-girlish voice – but she spoke in calm, steadying, almost commanding tones, which compelled Morag to look deep into her eyes. Yes, there was something there.

“Of course,” she replied, and in comparison her own voice sounded ancient to herself. “Here, help me.”

Lydia slipped one of Henry’s arms around her shoulders, and they crunched through the broken glass. Almost immediately, Morag felt a warm slickness under her right foot, and knew without checking that she’d cut herself. No matter – it wasn’t deep, she could tell – and besides, the mysterious bloody footprint leading down the steps and into her house could only lend an air of mystery which ultimately was good for business. She giggled – she must be in shock herself -

“Oy, you, what are you looking at?” came Lydia’s voice, clear and ringing in the night air. Morag came to herself and saw the fox still sitting at the top of Cat Loan, watching them with interested eyes. It got up and shifted a few steps to let them pass, but said never a word as they slipped precariously past him and balanced their way down, one step at a time. Glancing back, Morag saw he was slowly, discreetly, following them.

“Friend of yours?” asked Lydia, nonchalantly, half-smiling.

“Not really,” said Morag, then added, “I only met him tonight. He’s the one who sent me up to the High Street in the first place.” She’d said it to see what reaction the truth would get from Lydia.

The girl raised her eyebrows, started to speak, caught herself, frowned, said “Okay,” in a matter-of-fact way. Morag could see her mentally filing it away for further thought.

Henry was still muttering as they passed the front of the Cat’s Cradle in preparation for the assault on the steps up to Morag’s front door. “Get Lydia home, she too young for this – too young – “

Lydia started to speak, but Morag interrupted her. “Sshh, it’s okay, I’m looking after Lydia, she’s in safe hands, Henry.” His eyes fluttered through the clotted blood in his lashes, and Morag had a moment of feeling sick, before she reminded herself that scalp wounds always looked worse than they actually were, insofar as bleeding was concerned.

Stepping Henry carefully up the stairs to her front door, Morag noted the fox had found a niche under her hedge and had ensconced himself there, as if posting himself on guard duty for the night. The thought steadied her, and she let them in through the unlocked door in a calmer frame of mind.

Newhame – Chapter 7

Tim Leary both loved and dreaded the full moon. He loved it because it brought people out of their homes, drawn all unknowingly by the mysterious pull on their psyches, and a fair few of them ended up at some point during the evening drinking in The Silver Darlings. Tonight was no exception.

He dreaded the full moon, on the other hand, because too often the people drawn by the full moon turned out to be lunatics.

He prayed it would not be so tonight, as the pub was as full as it ever got, outside Christmas and the witch conference. Tables filled, people standing at the bar and sitting on the two benches outside on the pavement, one on either side of the door. Tim himself handled all the custom, efficiently talking orders, clearing tables, keeping a steady flow of Guinness pouring among the other drinks ordered, and still finding time for a quiet word here, a joke there.

Despite all this, Tim kept a weather eye on John Maggs, the butcher, sitting amongst his cronies in a corner but looking for all the world as if he were on the far side of the moon. Distant, that was the word for Maggs tonight.

Tim felt for the man – but the feeling was not quite sympathy. Pity, maybe. Tim was one of these “men who loved women”, hell, he’d make a fine High Priest if any of those crazy Wiccan covens had had the sense to recruit him. Goddess of all things? Keeper of the Sacred Flame and the Sacred Well? Bring her on, he’d say.

Yes, Tim loved womankind – and of course he loved individual women as well. Now take that Fiona Blyth. He stopped in the middle of drying a glass, his eyes losing their focus for a long moment. Now there was a woman. He’d had her once, and by Jesus he would have her again. Let her play hard to get – he was more than up for the task of running her to ground.

So it was he felt pity rather than sympathy for John Maggs. He finished drying the glass, juggled it into a complicated process of swapping glasses of Guinness from tap to tap to try, then carried a tray of two Guinnesses, a pint of 80 shilling, a pint of Best, and a Bloody Mary over to John’s table. His friends took the pint, and John took the Bloody Mary.

“Did you make it a double like I asked, Tim?” He was starting to slur his words, just a little.

Tim was not one of those modern landlords who presumed to tell his patrons when they’d had enough. For him, the customer was always right. If a patron wanted to drink himself into a blind stupor, Tim wasn’t holy enough – or rich enough – to presume to know better.

“Suck it and see, lad,” he told Jack, who smiled for the first time that evening.

John took a swig of the Bloody Mary, and his smile broadened into a grin. “Aye,” he said, “that’s nectar, that is. Cheers, big man.”

Tim’s attention was caught by someone new coming in – well, not entirely new. Hamish Donaldson was a local farmer who had voluntarily downsized from an increasingly expansive oil-seed rape operation to a smaller organic produce smallholding. He had sold hundreds of acres of prime East Lothian farmland to a large agribusiness conglomerate, who in turn was now selling parcels of it to land developers.

The common wisdom was that Hamish lost the heart for cut-throat international farming after his wife of 30 years, Betty, had died. Not one of his three sons had followed him in the trade, and left on his own there was much speculation as to what course his grief and change of life would take. His move to organic farming was greeted with approval of Hamish as a canny operator.

Hamish now found himself a standing space at the bar. With his waxed jacket and Wellingtons he might have been one of the local gentry, if not for the genuine spatters of ancient mud and pig shit on his boots and coat, and the weather-beaten map of life etched into the features of his face.

Tim was glad to see Hamish. He wouldn’t say they were bosom buddies, but somehow Hamish always carried an air of calm about him. Quarrelling voices at the bar gradually toned down and became amicable as Hamish stood there, radiating peace. He caught Tim’s eye, and after the usual greetings, asked, “What have you got that’s interesting tonight, Tim?”

“For you, Hamish, something special.” He leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Under the bar I’ve got the very last keg of Orkney Red Raven Pale Ale.”

Hamish raised his eyebrows slightly. “From the old brewer?”

“Aye, man, he sent it to me special before he retired. Do you fancy a pint?”

“Half a pint, Tim. Make it last, it’s a precious commodity in these times.”

“When you’re right, you’re right, Hamish.” He took the “Finished” sign off the last pump at the end of the bar, and surreptitiously poured a glass of smooth golden ale. He put the glass down in front of Hamish, then when the farmer reached for his wallet, Tim stayed his hand, and shook his head. Hamish understood. This barrel was beyond price – it was for sharing, and not subject to the vulgarity of commerce. He smiled in thanks, and raised his glass to Tim before he slowly sipped the first mouthful.

Tim left him, content and strangely uplifted.

A whirlwind came in the front door, a gaggle of laughing teenagers. Tim cast his eye over them and sighed. Some he knew for a fact to be underage, but tonight he felt he would turn half a blind eye on them. So long as the person who ordered the drinks was of legal drinking age, he wouldn’t quibble. Out of the three lads and two lassies establishing themselves in a front corner by the window, Tim particularly noticed Lydia Blyth, grand-daughter of Fiona.

Here was a dilemma. If he let Lydia (who was 16) drink here, it might call down the wrath of the object of Tim’s desire – but he was philosophically and commercially in favour of the freedom to get pissed, and in his opinion 16 was not too young to start. This moral outlook had come close to getting his licence revoked, but he’d managed, through a combination of misdirection, misinformation, contriteness and downright untruthfulness to avoid that dreaded fate. Landlording, and The Silver Darlings, was his whole life – it was who he was.

Frowning, his peace seriously eroded, he hesitated but did fill the order when Jamie Macallan, school-leaver and local lad-about-town got the first round in. Hamish greeted Jamie warmly – Jamie worked for Hamish on his organic smallholding.

“Just mind you’ve work tomorrow, laddie,” cautioned Hamish, half-jokingly. “Dinnae get too stotered!”

“Nae danger, Mr Donaldson. Anyway, I’ve got the constitution of an ox, my Nan always said.”

“Aye, and the brain power to match,” muttered Tim under his breath as the strapping youth made his way back to his pals, precariously negotiating a tray of drinks through the crowd.

Hamish, hearing the remark, chuckled. “Aye, he’s no the sharpest sickle in the hayfield, but he’s got a good heart, and gey green fingers and all. He’s no a bad lad. Just a bit foolish, bringing his young girlfriend in here to drink.”

“Aye, well, I’ll keep an eye on them, don’t you worry, Hamish.”

“I’m no worried,” replied the farmer. “So long as he shows up on time for his work, what he gets up to in his own time is his own business.”

“Wise words,” agreed Tim, as he bustled out with a tray in the never-ending round of clearing tables.

#

Outside, the Silver Darlings was a beacon of conviviality in the quiet town centre. Henry Higgenbotham savoured the sound, sight and smell of it as he wandered up the street slowly. He’d had his lonely dinner, and was fed up with his own company. He’d spent half an hour walking along the quiet road from the holiday park to the pub, and felt he had earned a pint. Nodding to the drinkers sitting on the benches outside in the mild late summer night air, he paused for a second, turning to take in the full moon over the tops of the houses tumbling down to the harbour.

It was a thrilling sight, little waves in the sea perfectly illuminated even from this distance. A silver sheen seemed to have transformed Newhame from base metal into something rare and precious. It was so beautiful he felt his heart melting, so he turned and went inside before he lost the will to drink.

Cigarette smoke and alcohol vapours slammed into his senses as he stepped inside. Despite an imminent law banning lighting up in public places in Scotland, Tim had made no move to wean people off their fags. Henry gasped, almost gagged, reconsidered his need for a pint, then spotted Hamish Donaldson propping up the bar.

As Henry still hesitated, the door opened behind him, and someone came in behind. Henry glanced over his shoulder as he pushed towards the bar, then did a double-take: shaven head, long patched coat even on this mild night, a string of beads and a silver amulet around his neck, a pierced nostril. It was what’s-his-name – Wolf – no, Coyote – Coyote Something-or-other. A guy who wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in San Francisco, but here he turned heads. Henry gave a mental shrug and pushed onwards. He came up to Hamish as Tim was swiftly rounding the bar, a worried expression on his face, and away before Henry could say hello and order his pint.

“Hamish Donaldson?” said Henry. The older man glanced at him, though his attention was obviously following Tim back into the crowded room.

“Aye, that’s me,” said Hamish. The American offered his hand, but Hamish wouldn’t be distracted. Tim was speaking swiftly to that Coyote character, the one John Maggs’s wife had run off with. Tim was obviously trying to get Coyote to reverse out of the pub again before Jack got wind of him. Fortunately Jack was in a corner with his cronies around him and they hadn’t seen Coyote yet.

“I’m Henry Higgenbotham,” the American persisted. “I’m been trying to get hold of you.”

“I’m no that hard to find,” grumbled Hamish.

“You wouldn’t think so. Can I buy you a drink? I’ve got a little business proposition you might be interested in.”

Tim was successfully moving Coyote back towards the door. They seemed to be smiling and Coyote even glanced in the direction of John Maggs’s corner, as if Tim had explained the situation, and he had accepted it. Hamish thought he could safely give the odd American man a little of his attention, even if it was only to brush him off.

“I’m here for pleasure, not business,” he told him, turning to look him full in the eye now.

Henry sighed. He was getting used to this. “Right, right, I understand. But could we arrange to meet? I mean, this is something that could work out to both our advantages. What about tomorrow? Are you free at all? I can come over to your place, it will only take a few minutes to outline the deal, then you can think about it.”

Both men were startled as Coyote, far from having gone away, now pushed past them at the bar, swiftly followed by a wary Tim.

Distracted again, Hamish made a snap decision. “Aye, all right, come round about three – I’ll be having a wee break then. You ken where I am?”

“Oh yes! Fantastic. Three o’clock it is. Now about that drink . . . . “

“Oh, sorry Mr Higgenbotham,” said Tim, finally catching Henry’s eye and giving him a quick, distracted smile. “I never saw you com in. A pint of Guinness is it?”

“Great! And something for Mr Donaldson, too.”

But Hamish waved that away. “What’s up with that one, Tim? I saw you trying to persuade him to leave.”

“He’s spending a penny first. Then he’s taking his drink outside.” Indeed he was lining up a pint of Best and a nip even as they spoke, as well as getting a Guinness started for Henry and pouring another half of the Red Raven for Hamish.

“Excuse me, Mr Leary?” a squeaky voice and a refreshing scent of apple blossoms and summer meadows cut through the fug of anxiety and cigarette smoke. It was Lydia Blyth, standing between Hamish and Henry, and holding a large tray filled up with empty glasses, which she reached up and over the bar to Tim, who took them with a confused look on his face.

“It’s Lydia, isn’t it?” Tim said stupidly, knowing full well who it was. The tray she handed him had twice as many glasses as he’d taken to her table.

Lydia smiled. “I think you need a barmaid, Mr Leary. And I need some extra money. I could start work tonight, if you like.” She put her hand across the bar for him to shake.

Tim considered. He did need an extra hand around the place, and she seemed to have made up her mind. He’d have to look up the appropriate laws on child employment – it was good to know which laws you were breaking – but he couldn’t see any real objection to it, apart from Fiona maybe resenting him for exposing her young granddaughter to the evils of the Newhame drinking fraternity. Still, it also meant he would see more of Fiona one way or t’other. He shook Lydia’s hand, saying, “Deal. But you’ll not be starting tonight, lass . . . .”

And then all hell broke loose in The Silver Darlings.