Newhame – Chapter 15

“Aye,” said Jamie Macallan, as he chucked another tattie into the wagon, “I’m telling you, Mr Donaldson, the future is straw bales. Organic straw bales.“

He paused to wipe his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, then took a long draught from one of the bottles of water Hamish had brought out for him and the other tattie haukers. A half dozen local lads and lasses, taking a break from the backbreaking work of pulling potatoes from the ploughed field, lounged in the shade of the wagon and gratefully drank from the large bottles of water Hamish had brought them.

“And I’m telling you,” said Hamish to his youngest full-time employee, “I’ve no got the time, space or inclination to grow straw. I’ll stick to the edibles, if you don’t mind.”

Jamie passed his water bottle on to another thirsty hauker and pressed his point. “I saw this thing on telly last night, about this man down in England somewheres, he’d built his whole house out of straw bales, and it was like the whole world opened up in front of my eyes – “

“Aye, television’ll do that to ye,” said Hamish. “Lead you down the garden path when you should be in the garden hard at work.”

Jamie ignored him. “And I said to myself, I said, ‘Jamie, that’s where the money’s going to be in the future. Renewable building materials.’”

Hamish gave his protégé a look of astonishment. Such long words. Still it should come as no surprise really. Jamie had worked for him since he’d been knee-high to a grasshopper, and Hamish had talked enough about renewables, organic crops and such over the years, Jamie had been bound to see the light sooner or later.

“Mr Donaldson,” called one of the other haukers, a young woman over from Dunbar, “how do you no do all this tattie pulling by machine, like? The farmer in the big fields by us had all his tatties up in an afternoon with a big tattie-pulling-up machine.”

“Well,” said Hamish, “this is easier on the tattie, I can charge more for them if I say they were hand-pulled, plus it puts money in your pocket, young lady.”

“Aye, but you can do more tatties quicker the other way,” another lad joined in. “Bigger fields, more tatties, more money for you.”

Jamie stepped in to explain. “Nah, you’ve got it all wrong, Cameron. Mr Donaldson’s done all that big farming stuff, he’s made pots of dosh already, now he wants to give something back – isn’t that right, Mr. Donaldson?”

“Oh aye, St. Hamish, that’s me and all,” chuckled the old farmer. “But I’ll no be all sweetness and light if you lot don’t clear this field today. You’ll find out what a real demon I can be!”

“Okay, Boss,” said Jamie quickly, recognising the seriousness poorly hidden behind Hamish’s half joke.

Hamish watched with satisfaction the haukers get on with the pulling, whilst Jamie, driving the tractor, towed the tattie wagon a bit further along the furrows; then he got into his battered Land Rover and headed back towards the farm house.

He drove by his modest fields of brassica and root vegetables, and swung away up to the fruit farm to check on the day’s takings where punters could come and pick their own fruit from the acres of raspberries, currants and brambles – the strawberries and gooseberries were finished for the season, but he was considering opening access to his boggy burnside land where the elder trees produced huge crops of berries every year.

After conferring with his fruit manager, and watching the steady stream of happy pickers arriving and leaving, Hamish finally admitted to himself that all was going well on the farm and he could head home for the rest of the day.

But as he drove up to the two story stone farmhouse, a sense of gloom descended on him. No matter how well his farm was doing, not all was right in Hamish’s world.

#

Entering the cool of the stone farmhouse was a relief from the unseasonably warm weather. This late hot spell was worrisome to Hamish. The fruit and veg had put on a bumper crop, but it had taken serious irrigation, and he knew the local reservoirs were at their lowest levels for a decade.

In his heyday of oilseed rape and other monocultures, Hamish would have scoffed – and did regularly scoff – at environmentalists’ concerns, but now he’d made it his business in his waning years to be kinder to the Earth. He mused on this as he sat down in his study and looked at the pictures of his family.

Duncan, his eldest, was a lawyer for a major insurance company in London; he’d married an English girl and they had two bairns of their own on a converted farmhouse in Surrey. Hamish smiled at the irony. He’d had such hopes that Duncan would follow in his footsteps, but very early on made it plain he took no interest in farming. Now he lived with the trappings of the farming life – house, paddock, gardens – but with none of the debilitating responsibility. Hamish shook his head and wondered who was the cannier.

Now Martin, his second son – he was always a puzzle to Hamish. He’d gone to university, got a good degree in English and Celtic Studies, but instead of going straight into the world of academia as all had expected, had dropped out. He’d taken on a series of odd jobs and used the income to go travelling, first all over the British Isles, then further afield. There had been a time when the postcards came from China, Mexico, the Sudan. He always talked a good line on the developing world and helping raise up the prospects of the downtrodden of the Earth. He railed against multinationals and there had been some blazing rows between father and son about his own business dealings. But just when everyone thought he would take on a job with some third world charity or other, he’d fooled them again. He’d returned to Scotland and taken on a lecturer’s position at Strathclyde University in Glasgow, teaching Celtic Studies. He’d taken a woman – not married, even now, after 15 years – and had three children. Out of wedlock, which had enraged Hamish initially, but all that was past. Of his three sons, he saw the most of Martin now, and it could be said he’d ultimately had the greatest influence on their father.

Hamish sighed as he took up the photo of Rab. Rab the soldier. The picture was of him in full dress uniform. Of his three sons, Hamish had thought that in the end Rab would stay with him and carry on the farmer’s life.

Rab was a dab hand with machinery, and he’d had a sensitivity to weather and the seasons. Even at a young age Hamish would discuss farming matters with his youngest, and he soon transferred his hopes for a dynasty from Duncan to Rab. Rab was quiet, thoughtful, and stuck to his father like glue. So it was all the more inexplicable and heart-wrenching when, soon after Rab’s sixteenth birthday, Hamish and Elspeth received a call from Edinburgh – from Rab – who said he’d joined the Army and would be staying with mates in town until he joined his unit.

It was a shock and no mistake. Hamish refused to believe it. He cajoled, shouted, wept even, but Rab remained impassive over the phone. He wouldn’t or couldn’t explain why, only that he had to do it,and that he was sorry.

Of course Hamish had got on to the Army straight away, but what could he do? Rab was entitled to join the services at 16 without his parent’s permission, and though the recruiting officer understood Hamish and Elspeth’s anguish, he was not empowered to force Rab to change his mind. Indeed, it was too late for that anyway. Rab was committed.

That had been 14 years ago. It had been a long time before Rab came home on leave. He wrote sporadically, but it was all news of his unit and what they were doing and what his mates got up to. Hamish sent news of the farm and the family, but it was barely acknowledged in Rab’s replies, as if he didn’t really understand his connection with that life any more.

When Rab had come home the first time, the weekend was fraught, to say the least. Hamish was still angry, Elspeth tried to reconcile the two, but soon gave up in the face of Rab’s impassivity. He didn’t rise to his father’s bait, but kept his council on any personal feelings, which only fuelled Hamish’s frustration.

After that unedifying event, Rab hadn’t come home much. He did write regularly, though, a letter a month like clockwork, but Hamish soon gave the job of replying up to Elspeth. He could no longer stand Rab’s studied ignoring of all his comments on the state of the farm, land, and weather.

Not that he ever stopped reading Rab’s letters home, though. In fact, after he’d given up the job of letter writing, and hence his own expectations, he began to enjoy Rab’s little tales of Army life. His anger thawed. But Rab had gradually stopped coming home, and the last he’d seen him was at Elspeth’s funeral.

Elspeth.

Hamish took up her photo and felt empty. It had been awhile since he brimmed with tears whenever he looked at this photo. Elspeth with pitchfork in hand, in the open barn door, a scarf not coping with containing her wild shock of hair. A wry smile on her face, head cocked to one side, slightly squinting in the morning sun. Younger in this photo, before the Alzheimer’s stole her from him.

He felt empty and he hated it. She had given him so much, filled his life with love and laughter, supported him, exasperated him, gave him children, cooked his meals, was his wife, lover, helpmate, farmhand …. Where had his tears for her gone? Dead only five years now, and the tears gone already.

But he’d seen her slip slowly away over the course of the years, sliding from health to frailty, from mental sharpness to rambling senility. There had been many tears in the beginning, by himself after she’d gone to bed. And tears when she finally passed over – the lines and bewilderment seemed to melt away in death, and all of a sudden she was there again, the face he’d fallen in love with, but too late now, cold and pale, already a ghost ….

He sighed. Still no tears. He carefully replaced the photo in its silver frame in the centre of the desk. Life was strange. He’d initially began to sell his land to pay for home care for Elspeth, and that had led by strange byways to his present situation – local organic guru and benefactor of the planet. He chuckled. Elspeth would have appreciated the irony.

Trying to distract himself from his swirling thoughts, he carefully pulled over a chessboard with a half-finished game set out. He pondered over a postcard with a notation carefully lettered: “exd5″. After stasis in the centre of the board for so long, Manuel had decided to push his pawn through. Hamish studied his black pieces, turned the board around to see it from Manuel’s perspective, then turned it back again.

Making a decision, Hamish took a blank from a stack of postcards pre-addressed to Manuel in Grenada, and wrote “Nxd5″. If Manuel wanted slaughter and mayhem in the centre then by God he would have it.

He made the move on the board, carefully placing the dead white pawn in the wooden port wine box which held the set of replica Lewis chess pieces. The two queens, exchanged early on, grimaced at each other where they lay face to face in the bottom of the box. Hamish wondered at their age-old enmity, then shook himself. Dinnae be daft, he told himself, as he slid the lid shut, sealing the warring parties in darkness once more.

Newhame – Chapter 14

During the drive from Edinburgh Airport, Jeffrey Arnott finally began to relax. Leo set the car’s temperature to an optimum 68 degrees, and put Brubeck on the stereo. Adolpho stayed glued to his cell phone, checking on who had and hadn’t yet arrived for the WOL conference, and arranging meetings for Jeffrey for the next few days’ runup to the big event.

Jeffrey’s mind wandered as they skirted Edinburgh on the ring road, the early evening traffic sparse and manageable. Not that Leo was ever phased by traffic. No matter how hectic or stop-and-start, he always seemed to manage to maintain steady progress at a few miles an hour over the speed limit, but not enough to attract attention.

As they penetrated the green countryside to the east of the city, Leo turned off the motorway and onto the B roads that hugged the coast. He knew that Mr Arnott wanted to take in as much scenery as possible. There was no hurry. Mr Arnott had once told Leo that coming to Scotland was like coming home, so Leo was happy to toodle along the back roads at a leisurely pace, to let Mr Arnott’s mind settle and his soul come to some kind of rest.

As Leo drove, and Adolpho kept up a constant stream of calls, Jeffrey was quietly reflecting on a dream he’d had while sleeping on the plane. At least he thought it had been a dream, and not a vision. It hadn’t had the intensity his astral travels usually held. But it troubled Jeffrey all the same.

In the dream, as so often was the case in his dream, he was whole and undamaged. He could speak and walk as easily as he had before the automobile accident that had crippled him ten years earlier. In this dream he was on horseback, and he knew he was in the countryside around Newhame. He rode along a dirt track behind a bank of high dunes, on the other side of which he could plainly hear the sound of the surf breaking.

It had been hot in this dream, and he had been drenched in sweat. The motion of the chestnut coloured horse between his legs had been vividly felt, so much so that riding in the car now he fancied he could still feel the movement, as a horseman might who had ridden for miles and only recently dismounted. In the dream flies had buzzed around them, the horse’s tail swishing constantly to keep them off its flanks, and Jeffrey likewise kept removing a felt hat and batting them away with it. The bank of dunes blocked the sea breeze that was driving the unseen waves onto the beach, and the air had felt humid and thick.

While Jeff pondered the meaning of it all, his car purred through the seaside towns of East Lothian: Aberlady, Gullane … at Dirleton Jeff signalled that he wanted to stop at the castle. Leo manoeuvred into the car park, and Jeff and Adolpho went into the grounds. Adolpho planted himself on a bench, still on the phone, while Jeff wheeled himself along the paths, taking the long drive up to the drawbridge.

Instead of crossing over, he sat on the path for awhile, surveying the countryside about. He could see the rolling Lammermuir Hills to the south, and the dramatic peaks of Trapprain and Berwick Laws, standing proud from the surrounding fields. The fields were full of golden grain, or the massive rolls of hay where the fields had been cut, dotted about like strange surreal monuments to ancient gods of the earth.

It was a hot day, and a heat haze lay over the land. A fly flitted around Jeff’s face. He knew it must be buzzing, and he felt an overwhelming sense of loss at his hearing come over him. At that point he would have given his fortune to hear that fly buzz.

He rolled over the drawbridge, more to get out of the sun than anything else. He knew once across he’d not be able to go much further than the small area inside the portcullis gate. Steps, slopes, ledges … he watched children leaping, climbing among the ruins, and people walking up and down the stairs so nonchalantly. He sighed and wheeled himself back out to the driveway, feeling the rumble of his wheels over the wooden planks of the drawbridge. Once over, he looked up at the highest tower, where people had climbed, and he wondered what magnificent views they were seeing from up there.

An image from his recent dream came to him as he sat there. He’d determined to get over the dunes to see the sea, but the horse had not been able to climb the dunes. It sank up to its knees in the shifting sand, and Jeff had had to give up and turn back to the track. He and the horse regained solid ground with a sense of relief, and he cantered it along, looking for a break in the sand. There seemed to be no break, either ahead or behind. He overtook an old woman on the road, and asked her how to get over to the sea.

“What are ye on aboot, son?” she asked. “There’s nae sea here.”

Jeff had grown angry in the dream. “I can hear it, you stupid woman. It’s on the other side of those dunes.”

The woman looked at the dunes, puzzled, and Jeff saw she wasn’t old at all. In fact it had been the face of the the young mother in his last vision. “I’ve never noted they dunes before, son,” she said smiling. “I’ll go over mysel’ and hae a wee look…”

“Don’t – ” Jeff tried to warn her, but the woman immediately scrambled onto the shifting hill of sand. Jeff watched in horror as she started to sink into the sand. She shrieked, lost her balance and fell forward, to become half buried. She continued to sink, even as Jeff felt powerless to move. As she sank so only her arm, shoulder and head were left, he tried to kick his horse forward onto the dune, but it shied, bucked, and threw him to the ground, afterwards galloping away.

Dazed, Jeff stood, looked around, but neither horse nor woman were anywhere to be seen. A declivity in the sand, even now shifting and smoothing over, showed where the woman had struggled to get free. But she had never called to him, never asked for help, only struggled grimly and silently on her own.

If only she’d called my name, I could have saved here, Jeff thought; then a hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up. Adolpho. His assistant signed a question: “Do you want a coffee or something?”

Jeff shook his head wearily. It must be the jet lag, the thought. “Let’s just get to the hotel,” he signed back, and let Adolpho wheel him down the curving slope of the castle drive.

Newhame – Chapter 13

Tim Leary, too, was having an unusual breakfast experience that day. Unusual in that he was eating breakfast in the morning. At the crack of dawn. The fecking birds were singing and all, for sweet Jesus’ sake!

It wasn’t really the crack of dawn, but for Tim it might as well have been. Running a pub had always meant late nights and later mornings. He had habitually set his alarm for 11.30 a.m. and that timetable had suited him since time immemorial. Now he had found himself without a pub to run, and up and breakfasting at 9 a.m.

Tim was sitting on the bench outside the Silver Darlings, in the morning sun, with a mug of coffee, a bowl of corn flakes and still-folded copy of the Racing Post. A large piece of plywood was up in place of the window that had been broken out in the fight, and that rankled Tim. Somehow, his buildings insurance on the pub had been allowed to lapse, and now even though he’d dug deep in his pockets to renew it, they wouldn’t pay for the replacement of the window, and he was now officially too skint to pay for the window himself, what with no income coming in and all.

Pending licence board investigation of certain irregularities which had come to light during the investigation of the the brawl in the pub, Tim’s licence had been revoked. Well, strictly speaking it had not been renewed. Tim’s failure to renew it and operating unlicensed for six months was one of the things being investigated.

Tim was lost in his misfortunes when a sweet voice broke his reverie: “You all right, Mr Leary?”

He shielded his eyes against the low sun in the East. It was Lydia Blyth in school uniform. “Oh, it’s yourself, Lydia. Aye, not too bad. Enjoying the morning air.”

Lydia sat tentatively beside him on the bench. “I feel so bad about your pub, Mr Leary.” Her brow was knitted and her mouth pursed. “I feel like . . . well, I feel like it’s my fault, in a way.”

Tim looked at her with a blank expression. “You?” he finally said. “Your fault? How do you make that one out, exactly?”

“I was distracting you,” she explained, twisting her fingers together nervously. “If I hadn’t been asking you about a job, you might have been able to stop Coyote from going over to Mr Maggs, and there wouldn’t have been an argument, and all of this wouldn’t have happened.” She waved her hand at the plywood behind them.

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure, and you may be partially right, Lydia.” He patted her knee when he saw her face screw up in tears. “Hush now, none of that! I only said partially right. You’re about as much to blame as Mr Higgenbotham, who was also talking to me, or Hamish or Jamie. But there’s no denying it’s mostly down to three people. Jack Maggs for being such a miserable husband that his wife left him. Then your man Coyote, the daft eejit, he couldn’t stop himself from making things worse by apologising to a drunkard. But of course, even if I couldn’t have prevented the fight, this ….” He looked around at his pub, then slumped on the bench, sighing. “I’ve been living on the edge of my luck for years now, lass, and it just happened to be my time to slide off. If I had walked the straight and narrow my pub would be solvent and operating, and I’d be in my bed now, instead of enjoying the morning sun and the conversation of a pretty girl. So, it’s all swings and roundabouts, Lydia. Those bloody swings and roundabouts.”

The two sat silently for a moment, contemplating their role in the demise of the village pub, when Tim finally yawned and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past nine. “Now, I’ve no idea what time school is meant to start, only there was quite a parade of children about half an hour ago, rushing along as if they were late. So I’m thinking that maybe you ought to be making a move your own-self, young Miss Blyth.”

Lydia sighed. “I suppose so.” She stood. “By the way, Miss McKillop has given me a wee job. So, you know, it’s no problem that you said you’d give me work, and now . . . .” She looked at the pub, misery on her face.

“Think nothing of it, Lydia, I’m pleased for you. But I’ll hold you to your promise when we open up again.”

Lydia smiled. “I’d like that.” Then she turned and hurried along the High Street.

Tim sat a while longer, saying good morning to astonished shopkeepers and tradesmen, for whom the sight of Tim Leary in the morning was like a freak of nature. Just when he stood up and turned to go inside, a large van from a glazier in Edinburgh pulled up at the kerb. The driver put his head out of the window.

“Is this the Silver Darlings?”

Tim looked up ostentatiously at the sign over the door. “Yes, it is, indeed,” he said at last, biting back a sarcastic answer. He didn’t have the heart to castigate someone for being stupid at this time in the morning.

“Okay boys,” the driver said to two others in the van. They bustled out, and while they opened the rear of the van, the driver came over with a clipboard to Tim.

“You’re no Tim Leary, are you?”

“Aye, that would be me.”

“Magic. Sign here please.” He thrust the clipboard at Tim, who, however, refused to touch it.

“See, the thing is lad, I never ordered any glass.” He watched as the two other men took out equipment and tools from the back of the van. He went on, “I didn’t order it and I can’t pay for it.”

“Nae bother, pal, it’s already paid for. All you need to do is sign the paper.”

Tim still made no move to take the clipboard. “Paid for already, is it? Now I wonder who’s been so generous to me?”

“I can tell you exactly,” said the glazier, going through the sheets in the clipboard. He found the one he was looking for. “Mr Jeffrey Arnott. The address says San Francisco, California.”

A young schoolboy, puffing, ran up the pavement, late for school. The glazier stopped him. “Here, I’ll give you a quid if you’ll sign this, pal.”

Barely hesitating, the lad grabbed the clipboard, scrawled his signature, took the pound coin, and continued puffing his way to school.

Grinning at Tim, he said, “You missed your chance, Mr Leary. Okay, boys, let’s get to work.” And a final word to Tim. “Oh, and a cup of tea wouldnae go amiss the now.”

Bowing to the inevitable, Tim let them get on with prizing the plywood from the shop front and fitting the new sheet of class while he went in and put on the kettle.

The glass was soon in place, and the workies tucked into their mugs of tea, standing in the morning sun.

“Not that it’ll do me much good, I’ve had to close temporarily,” explained Tim. “Still, it’s better for the image of the town.”

“Aye, you’re right,” replied the glazier. “But you’re no really on the main drag here, are you? I never even kent this place existed.”

“I did,” piped up one of his workers. “We used to come out here for our holidays. To the chalet park, like.”

“Aye, we still get a fair few folk there during the year,” agreed Tim. “Of course, it’s always full up for the conference.”

Seeing the blank looks, Tim went on. “You know, the Witches of Lothian conference.” He grinned, and said, “Not that I’d expect you not have heard of that lot.”

The mood among the crew from Edinburgh changed. They looked suspiciously at their teas. “We’ll wait in the van, like,” said the holiday boy. Then without thanking Tim for the tea, the two workers climbed into the van and out of sight.

“Dinnae mind them, son,” said the glazier. “It’s just, ken, witches an all that. We have heard about your conference. A’body has. For most of us it’s a wee bit joke – the teuchters taking the urban pagans for all they’re worth – ” he tapped his temple. “Canny, that. Very canny. But for some, well . . . , you might say it’s uncanny.” He handed Tim a job sheet to sign off. “When is this conference, anyway?”

“Halloween,” lied Tim, suddenly feeling terse and defensive.

“Aye, right!” laughed the glazier, then caught the look on Tim’s face. “You’re no one of they . . . .” He waved his hand vaguely.

“No,” said Tim. “Just an honest publican sitting on his hands.” He felt an urge to punch the eejit in the face, but the urge passed. This man was no different than millions of others, and Jesus knew Tim had slagged off the dafties who came to the conference often enough himself. “You’ve done a grand job, man.” He reached out and shook the glazier’s hand, who shook it back with a grin. He hadn’t liked the dark look in Tim’s eyes, and was relieved that it was all ending amicably. Still, it only reinforced the notion of the queer folk in Newhame, and he didn’t feel entirely easy until he’d driven his van out of town at well above the legal speed limit.

Newhame – Chapter 12

Something very odd was happening up at the Manse. The Blyth family were breakfasting together.

That is to say, they were all present at the breakfast table at the same time. To suggest they might have been eating a co-ordinated morning meal would have been entering the realms of pure fantasy.

Lydia sat before a massive stack of toast and marmalade. She and Cynthia were drinking mugs of tea – Fiona knew better than to try to introduce civilised chinaware to her progeny – those battles had been fought and lost years ago.

Cynthia was having a fag with her tea for breakfast, munching on the odd piece of toast stolen from Lydia’s plate.

“I don’t see why you can’t make your own toast!” Lydia complained with exaggerated bitterness. Cynthia merely rolled her eyes and took another puff. “And I wish you wouldn’t smoke while I’m trying to eat!”

“Yes, Cynthia, it is rather disgusting,” agreed Fiona. She sat in front of scrambled eggs and bacon, a small pot of tea and a proper china cup and saucer. Cynthia and Lydia both eyed the cooked breakfast with envy, but Cynthia would have died before asking her Mum to cook breakfast for her, and Lydia was so unused to the concept of eating breakfast together it never occurred to her that her Nan might be pleased to do it.

Fiona looked glumly at her daughter and granddaughter, and wished she had divined this unusual event would take place. She would have boiled up a pot of porridge and they could have had a proper meal together.

Cynthia ignored the censure of her family, and continued to smoke, drink her tea and steal Lydia’s toast. She was usually up and out of the house first, to beat the traffic into Edinburgh and get started on her day’s briefings with the solicitors she worked with.

But Cynthia had had a bad night the previous night. She’d lain awake for hours, thinking about Coyote Star-Raven, of all people. She knew she was mildly obsessed with the man; what made things worse was that since the night of the fight in Tim Leary’s pub, Coyote seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

There were strange rumours about what happened in the pub that night. Some said he disappeared into thin air. She overheard one old duffer swear to another that Coyote had turned himself into a ferret and slipped through a hole in the floor in the resulting melée. But Cynthia had firsthand knowledge of the unreliability of eyewitnesses.

“Why aren’t you at work, anyway?” Lydia asked her accusingly.

“Yes, I thought you had a preliminary hearing at ten?” Fiona gently probed.

Cynthia stabbed out her fag, lit another. “Got a text this morning,” she explained around her first puffs. “The silly bugger hanged himself in cells.” That shut them up, she observed to herself as an awkward silence descended on the table. “Still,” she couldn’t resist adding, “The bright side is that I got a lie-in.”

“Cynthia, really!” her Mum protested, but Cynthia was truly surprised when Lydia shrieked, “Mum, why are you so horrible!” and fled the kitchen in tears.

Ignoring Fiona’s withering looks, Cynthia got up and followed Lydia. She found her outside, lying on a bench beside the back door in the morning sunshine.

“Go away,” said Lydia, wiping the tears from her face.

“You’re getting covered in dew, you silly ass,” said Cynthia sternly, then sighed and shoved Lydia’s feet off the bench to make herself a place to sit. She knew she had gone a little too far, but this reaction was unprecedented, and called for unprecedented measures on Cynthia’s part.

“I’m sorry, pet,” said Cynthia with such tenderness that Lydia couldn’t help staring. Her mother stubbed out her fag and took Lydia’s hand in hers. “I’m a right twat sometimes, don’t think I don’t know it.” She sighed, as Lydia sat up and leaned against her on the bench. Cynthia chuckled and put her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m surprised you’ve not run away from home. Yet. I’m such a crap mum I wouldn’t blame you.”

Gazing out to sea, Lydia said hesitantly, “Well, I wouldn’t say you were a crap mum.”

“Inadequate, then.”

“Aye, I’d go along with inadequate.”

Cynthia lightly punched her shoulder. “Brat,” she chided, then, “Off you go and finish brekkies, no point in us both being late this morning.” Lydia got up to go inside, but Cynthia touched her hand as she passed. “What time are you in tonight? Are you working with Morag?”

Lydia nodded, pulling the fringe of hair back from her eyes. “I should be home by ten.”

“Ten? That’s a bit later than usual, isn’t it? What’s she got you doing, stirring her potions for her?”

“Don’t be daft, Mum,” said Lydia, but Cynthia noticed that she blushed slightly, and she didn’t answer the question.

“Off you go, then, see you later,” said Cynthia, but she made a mental note to have a word with Morag to see exactly what kind of work Lydia was doing for her twice a week until ten in the evening.

She spent a calm few minutes vegging out in the morning sun, wondering vaguely if she should go in to work at all or call in sick. She could feel the morning chill dissipating moment by moment. She cross-examined herself. Most unlike you, Ms Blyth. Would you say you made a habit of shirking your work – work for which you are paid handsomely, I might add?

“No,” she answered out loud, but still made no move to start her day properly. Hell, she hadn’t even got dressed yet. Ancient dressing gown over her pyjamas. She let her dressing gown fall open, examining the threadbare cotton pj’s, their tartan pattern starting to fade. Tatty, she thought. So it has come to this, has it Ms Blyth? No romantic life of any kind, lusting after a virtual vagrant … sleeping in pyjamas? Tartan pyjamas, Ms Blyth? Not very sexy, is it?

“Piss off,” she muttered angrily. She started to light another fag, then stopped herself. Her mum was right, they were nasty little things, and she had a sudden vision of herself at 60, wrinkled, too much make-up, a lipstick-smeared cigarette dangling from her dried-up mouth. She buried her face in her hands.

“Tea, darling?” Cynthia looked up to see her Mum coming out the back door, a china cup and saucer balanced in one hand, and Cynthia’s own mug in the other.

“Thanks, Mum,” she said, taking her mug and sliding over on the bench. Fiona, of course, was already impeccably turned out and made up. She wouldn’t leave her room in the morning until she had put her face on with elaborate care.

Cynthia both admired that and was repelled by it at the same time. Of course one had to look one’s best in Court – the power of sex appeal could only be ignored at the peril of one’s client – but it was a process always put off until one was actually in the office. Cynthia had enough trouble lifting a mug of tea in the morning – the thought of intelligently applying makeup before 8 a.m. was beyond her ken.

Fiona leaned back on the bench and breathed a heavy sigh. Cynthia glanced at her. She absently pulled the packet of fags from her dressing-gown pocket again, but just looked at the crumpled packet and shoved it back in.

“What’s up, Mum?” she asked, leaning back as well. This was a rare moment. It had been a long time since she’d had a heart to heart with her mother. Two busy women with full schedules and a liking for their own company didn’t exactly make for a gab-fest scenario at the Newhame Manse.

“Oh, I’m just dreading the next few days.” She paused, marshaling her thoughts, trying to articulate the sense of foreboding she been feeling lately.

“It’s this whole Witches of Lothian nonsense,” she continued. “Except it’s not nonsense – I mean, it is, of course, but the conference has become so important to the village. It’s not healthy. And now, this Arnott character -”

“Who, that bizarre French woman?”

“Is she French? I thought she was Romanian or something – but no, I mean her husband. Jeffrey Arnott. He’s the power behind it all. The Chairman of the Board.”

“The Big Cheese,” added Cynthia.

“The Gargantuan Cheese,” Fiona corrected, both women chuckling. But it was short-lived. A grim look came over her face. “I don’t trust him, Cynthia. Did you know that other American chap, Henry what’s-his-name, did you know he’s working for this Arnott fellow? Buying local property – or rather trying to buy local property, none too successfully if the rumours are true.”

Cynthia patted her mum’s knee. “Now you’re sounding paranoid, Mum. If Higgenbotham hasn’t been successful, there’s nothing to worry about. QED.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Fiona. “Still, you couldn’t ask around at the courts, could you? For any unusual conveyancing activity? I know you’re very busy, dear . . . . “

Cynthia surprised her by smiling grimly and saying, “Consider it done, Mum. I’m not guaranteeing anything, mind you, but I’ll extend my antennae.” Whereupon she put her fingers out from her forehead and made beeping noises. He mum guffawed.

Cynthia grinned and her mother stared in wonder. She hadn’t see or heard her daughter act so childlike and accommodating for . . . well, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed together. Fiona drank the last of her tea, and decided that the three of them should have breakfast together more often.

Newhame – Chapter 11

While Jeff and Adolpho were checking into their evening flight, it was early morning in Newhame. Morag McKillop sat by the window looking out over the North Sea, watching first light tinge the horizon. A fire crackled in the fireplace, burning low, the coal scuttle almost emptied from her long night’s vigil.

Morag felt a sudden chill, and pulled her dressing gown close around her, tucking her feet up under her in the armchair she’d pulled over to the window. She was in a state of visionary exhaustion.

Although she couldn’t see it from where she sat, she knew the old half-moon was more or less directly overhead. Waning – decrepit – rotting away in the sky. Morag could clearly see herself blasting it with a shotgun, the moon exploding into shards like a clay pigeon.

She rubbed her hand over her face, then sat up to go into the kitchen. Opening her cupboard, she surveyed the jars and boxes of various infusions. Without hesitating, she took down the jar of strong Yorkshire Tea. Let the medicine suit the malaise. She put the kettle on, and when the water had heated a bit, poured a little into the pot, returning the kettle to the heat. She swirled the hot water around the bottle, poured it out, and spooned two large teaspoons of the sturdy black tea into the pot. She took out a mug – smiling, imagining the horrified look on Fiona Blyth’s face – and put a drop of milk into it. When the kettle whistled, she poured the still-boiling water into the teapot, and slapped a tea cosy over it. The tea cosy was blue and white-checked quilted cotton.

A golden glow stole over the room, and a sudden stab of light shot into Morag’s eyes, reflected from the small window over the kitchen sink. She turned to look through the kitchen door, which was on a direct line with the window in the east gable end. The sun was pouring over the horizon, like the eruption of a distant volcano, a continual nuclear explosion in space. Her living room and kitchen were suffused with light. Morag thought of Hiroshima.

When she turned back to pour the strong brew into her mug, Morag’s hands were shaking.

Drinking the tea, Morag felt warmth spread down her throat and radiate throughout her body. Yes. She felt ever-so-slightly more aligned with the universe.

She took her tea downstairs, through the studio, stopping in the doorway out to the garden. She sat cross-legged in the open doorway, watching the world wake up.

The dawn chorus was in its full-throated glory. One particular blackbird was perched in a rowan tree, pouring crystal notes into the golden morning. For the first time in a fortnight, since the night she’d brought Henry Higgenbotham home from the brawl in the Silver Darlings, Morag felt connected with the universe.

It had been a rough two weeks, Morag reflected, sipping her tea. Why it had been rough, though she wasn’t entirely sure. She just knew she had become progressively unhappier with each passing day. And her artwork had suffered. She was supposed to be finished her pieces for her show in London in three weeks time. Three weeks? Christ . . . she rubbed her hand across her scalp. The possibility of cancelling it crossed her mind for the first time.

She knew she needed to pull herself together and last night’s vigil had meant to accomplish that, but it had done nothing of the sort. She had meditated for hours, but enlightenment continued to elude her.

She wished desperately for divine inspiration, but the Goddess seemed to have deserted her lately. Though several times she had done ritual in her garden, the owl-oracle had not appeared. But then neither had the fox who advised her than night. Morag felt terribly alone.

Even Henry had made himself scarce – whether from real press of work or embarrassment for having woken up naked in Morag’s guest bedroom, she wasn’t sure. Certainly he had been embarrassed, and had left her house as soon as she decently could get away. Before he left, she reminded him she still owed him a Tarot reading, be he only smiled wanly. “Oh, I don’t think you owe me a thing,” he’d assured her. “But the fact is that I owe you quite a lot. He’d turned serious then. “Listen, can I call you this week and talk? There are things we need to discuss – you’re the only one round here I can trust on this – and it’s something you’ll need to know about.”

“Is it about Jeffrey Arnott?” she’d asked, touching his arm as he stood in the doorway.

He’d blinked, then grinned. “Should have known you’d know at least that much. But he’s only a part of it. There is much more. But I have to do some research, and I may not be around for a few days.” He’d held her hand. “I’ll be thinking about you.” Then he’d leaned forward and kiss the corner of her mouth.

Sitting in her doorway now, Morag touched her face where he’d kissed it. A few days had turned into a week, and then two weeks.

No word from Henry. Morag suddenly felt profoundly hollow, and she knew then that she cared deeply what happened to him, and that she wanted – needed – to see him again and as soon as possible.

Was she in love? Sipping her tea, Morag smiled ruefully at the thought. It seemed so unlikely, and yet stranger things had happened.