Newhame – Chapter 18

By the time Hamish and Henry arrived at Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary, just about tea time it was, Cynthia had caught up with events, leaving the court case she was leading in the capable hands of one of her colleagues. The two men hesitated for a fraction of a second, both instinctively uneasy at the gathering of women in the private room Cynthia had arranged.

In the bed, connected to an I.V. drip and still sleeping – they were avoiding the word “unconscious” – lay Fiona, looking serene and young. Hamish had a jolt, remembering Elspeth. Around her sat her descendants – Cynthia and Lydia, Lydia sitting on the floor with her head in her mum’s lap. Opposite them, looking drawn and severe, sat Morag. She glanced up at the advent of the two men in the doorway, the arrival of unexpected guests, and her blank look transformed when she saw Henry. She didn’t smile – in fact, quite the opposite – her face crumpled into tears, as she immediately rose and threw her arms around his neck.

Startled but pleased, Henry embraced her sturdily as she buried her face against his neck and breathed a tearful sigh. “I missed you,” Morag whispered into Henry’s ear, and he felt hot tears on his own cheek. He held her more tightly.

In spite of the situation, Hamish couldn’t quite conceal his grin. He moved away from the two to where Cynthia and Lydia were watching the reunion with renewed interest. He sat on the one spare chair and put his hand on Cynthia’s shoulder. “How is she?” he asked, trying to wrench the moment back into its proper context.

Cynthia looked at him blankly, then turned her eyes back onto her Mum. “Well, she’s sleeping, can’t be woken, but nobody knows why. They’ve run a battery of tests, still waiting results, but on the face of it they haven’t got a clue.” Hamish studied her face. He considered himself a past expert on tense hospital situations, and he recognised worry, incomprehension, and, it had to be said, boredom. “How long have you been here like this?” he asked.

“What? Oh,” checking her watch, “Three hours. Christ is that the time?” She stroked Lydia’s hair. “What are we going to do about your tea, love?”

“I’m not hungry,” Lydia lied. Her stomach rumbled audibly, and despite everything her Mum smiled.

“The evidence does not support the witness’s allegation,” she said drily.

“Come on, then, let’s go find the canteen,” said Hamish authoritatively. “I think I can still find my way around these corridors. I’ve spent enough time here over the years.”

“Thanks, Hamish,” said Cynthia with a grateful smile, as Lydia rose, stretched,then leaned over to kiss her Nan’s forehead. Cynthia squeezed her hand as she passed to go out with Hamish.

“Right,” said Henry, “what happened, then?” He gently pulled Morag’s arms away, and the two st together opposite Cynthia. Morag seemed to have melted, her strength in the face of adversity willingly yielding to her unexpected emotion at seeing Henry. She leaned against him, took his arm and put it around her shoulder. Henry was slightly overwhelmed by this show of affection, but it seemed so right and natural, he was able to carry on as if this closeness was part of his normal life.

Cynthia hesitated, expecting Morag to begin the story with a recount of of the events of the Farmers’ Market meeting. When Morag half closed her eyes and snuggled more closely against Henry, she decided to speak.

“Mum took ill at her committee meeting this afternoon.”

“The Farmers’ Market?” asked Henry. Cynthia nodded, and he explained, “Jack Maggs called Hamish and filled him in. We came over as soon as we heard.”

“I’m surprised the jungle drums took so long to get the story out,” observed Cynthia wryly.

“We were out. Excommunicado. Jack left a message on Hamish’s machine.”

“I see,” said Cynthia. She opened her mouth to continue, when Morag straightened up abruptly and looked at Henry sharply. “So you’ve been staying with Hamish this past fortnight, have you?”

“Yes,” admitted Henry, embarrassed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner. I felt like I needed a retreat after the brawl in the pub.”

“Never mind,” said Morag, patting his arm. “It makes perfect sense to me. Anyway, what matters is Fiona.” She leaned forward and put her hand on top of Fiona’s, as if feeling for life. Afer a moment, she settled back again against Henry, who felt emboldened to reach up and stroke her hair as she spoke. “She just, I don’t know, collapsed during the meeting. I mean she couldn’t go on. I took her up and put her to bed.” Morag hesitated, decided to say nothing yet about her vision. She could tell Henry later, but she didn’t like to admit in front of Cynthia that she’d been touching her mother’s things, let along using her hair brush. “Then we called Dr Roebuck, he organised an ambulance, someone called Cynthia – “

“Jack Maggs,” Cynthia supplied the answer. She felt curiously detached from this narrative. After all, the crisis had been a fait accompli by the time she’d received the call. The most she’d contributed had been to ring the hospital and arrange for a private room for Fiona before the ambulance arrived. She sat there, admiring, grateful to, and jealous of Morag all at once. She’d held it together, and who could blame her now for letting go and leaning on the nearest masculine shoulder?

“I rode in with her, I mean Lydia and I rode in,” continued Morag.

Another stab of jealousy pierced Cynthia’s heart, but it was short-lived. Since Cynthia had arrived, Lydia had not left her side. She seemed to have regressed from 16 years old to about half that. Despite her jealousy, Cynthia felt moved to speak.

“I never said, Morag,” she began, then stopped, choked suddenly with emotion. Her mum, Mummy, laid there so helpless. Morag had been a good friend to them, to each one of them, in her own way. Cynthia’s eyes welled with tears for the first time that day. “You’ve done so much for us …”

“Ssssh, shush,” she said, cradling Cynthia’s head in her hand. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen her like this,” said Cynthia, through her sobs. “So helpless. And I feel so bloody useless…”

As she collapsed in tears, Henry squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, then stood. “I’ll just go find Hamish and Lydia, I think. Do you want something – a cup of tea maybe?”

“Two cups, please, Henry?” said Morag, looking at him with her own eyes shining with tears. Henry stepped over, leaned down and their lips met softly, briefly. He heart soaring, Henry said, “Be back in a few minutes,” and left the room, with a backward glare that caught Morag with her eyes closed, a sad smile on her face.

Out in the corridor, Henry took a deep breath. That had been unexpected. A pleasant surprise. Henry chuckled at his own reserve. “Fan-fucking-tastic, I’d say.”

A passing nurse gave him a strange look, and Henry grinned apologetically, then rushed to catch up with her. “Is there a cafeteria, or somewhere to get a cup of tea nearby?” he asked.

“Down the corridor, first left, down a flight, then follow the signs.”

Henry thanked her, then set off with only faint hopes of actually finding the canteen.

As Henry wandered down the corridor, past wards of elderly people in various states of distress, he wondered if hospital planners actually went out of their ways to make hospitals soul-less and unattractive. Strictly functional. No beauty; just when ailing folks might like a light visual touch, or the richness of natural wood and upholstered fittings, they were met with cheap wood veneer finishes, plastic chairs, straight lines and hard chrome. Henry shook his head. He kept coming back to the shabbiness. The Royal Infirmary was only a few years old, meant to be a state of the art facility, but it was already starting to look tatty around the edges. Cheap materials, said Henry to himself. Expensive technology, expensive doctors, but couldn’t they spend some money on making it look nice?

He slowed down at the open door to another private room. An elderly man was sitting in a hard plastic chair beside an equally elderly woman in a bed, surrounded by equipment and intravenous lines. The man’s face was withered with pain as the nurse appeared to be unhooking the woman from her life support. The woman was quite obviously dying – or dead – and the realisation gave Henry a shock that caused him to pause for a moment, staring. The nurse caught sight of him, have him an angry look, and shut the door firmly in his face.

Shit, thought Henry as he walked on. What a place to draw your last breath.

After that he walked more quickly, passing more wards filled with more suffering and despair, and shut off his senses as best he could. He soon found the corridor, the stairs door, and sure enough, signs directed him to the cafeteria that only took another five minutes to get to.

The canteen was fairly busy, it being tea-time and during visiting hours. There was a mixture of medical types and punters. After a moment Henry spotted Hamish and Lydia deep in conversation. He made his way over.

Hamish had a black coffee, Lydia a Caesar salad and a glass of apple juice, all pretty much untouched.

“Hey, guys,” said Henry as he sat down. He patted Lydia on the shoulder. “How you holding up, kid?”

Lydia managed a small, weak smile and a shrug. “Not great,” she confessed. Henry could see her point. Her eyes were red with dark circles underneath and her hair, usually so carefully brushed and looked after, was a mass of tangles. She ran her fingers through it unconsciously, twisting the ends, pushing it away from her face and letting it fall back again.

Hamish cleared his throat. “Lydia was just saying how Morag had been there when she came home, and pretty much took care of the whole thing until Cynthia met them at the hospital.”

“The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her,” said Lydia, her voice trembling. “I mean, they say there’s nothing wrong. She just won’t wake up. They say it’s a non — a non-trauma coma.”

“Non-trauma-induced coma,” Hamish filled in the rest of the phrase. “Like Lydia said, she’s shut down for no apparent reason. All they can do is run tests, and wait.”

“They said we could talk to her if we like, she might be able to hear us,” said Lydia, “but we didn’t. We couldn’t think of anything to say.” The tears rolled down her cheeks now, and her voice broke. “Maybe if we talked to her more – maybe she’d wake up ….”

Hamish put his arm around the sobbing girl, and once again Henry squirmed. He hated himself at times like this, his uncharitable inclination to run away when people started blubbing. But curiously, he hadn’t felt like that when Morag had shed hot tears on his neck, and leaned on him for support. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Breathing deeply, the urge to run subsided as he conjured up the feeling of Morag’s body pressed against his. Calmly he said, “I’m gonna grab a coffee. You guys need anything?”

“Nah, you’re all right Henry,” said Hamish. Lydia just smiled weakly again and shook her head.

Henry negotiated the queue of medics and bought a cinammon bun and a rather anemic capuccino. Still, a hospital cappuccino was like Doctor Johnson’s dog, as far as Henry was concerned. The amazing thing was that it existed at all, never mind if it was actually any good.

When he got back to his seat, he neatly cut the bun in half and pushed his plate with half the bun over to Lydia. “Comfort food,” he explained as he dunked his half into his coffee and bit off the dripping pastry.

“Thanks,” said Lydia, taking the half bun and nibbling on it.

“So,” said Henry after a long silence, “What now? What do the doctors recommend? Does she stay here, or can she be looked after at home?”

“I expect they’ll want to keep her in for a while at least,” Hamish said. He started to launch into the expense of home care in case she she stayed in a vegetative come, but bit his tongue for Lydia’s sake. Best stay hopeful at this point. “I doubt this will last. I mean, there’s not anything wrong with her, right? So there’s no reason to think she won’t wake up soon.”

Henry caught a significant look from Hamish. “Yes, of course, it’s probably just like exhaustion or something.”

“Nan hasn’t been sleeping well,” confirmed Lydia, gasping at straws. “She’s been looking awfully tired and worried lately.”

“I expect it’s all just caught up with her,” continued Hamish. “Us oldies, ken, we come down with these mysterious illnesses from time to time. It’s only age. You just have to accept you can’t keep up the pace. Your Nan isn’t the kind of person to slow down voluntarily, so her body has said, ‘enough is enough’, and taken a wee holiday.

Lydia sighed, “I hope that’s all it is.” She thought for a moment. “But old folks don’t go dropping into comas all the time, do they? No … it’s more than that. Something must have happened.” She averted her eyes. “I know it sounds daft, but ….” She stopped.

“What?” asked Henry.

“No, never mind.”

“Tell us what you’re thinking, lass,” said Hamish, with a curious soft command in his voice.

Lydia caught the tone, and it steadied her. She looked calmly from one man to the other as she said, “I think someone has cast a spell on my Nan.”

Newhame – Chapter 17

Insomnia makes for difficult days – so mused Fiona Blyth as she struggled to stay alert during the planning meeting for the upcoming Newhame Farmer’s Market.

Chairperson of the planning committee, Fiona had called the meeting because this Sunday’s Market coincided with the final day of the “Witches of Lothian” Conference. She usually organised the market herself with mutually agreed independence from the committee; but she had convened this meeting to make sure nothing had been overlooked in light of the anticipated large numbers of strangers looking for evidence of the superiority of locally produced food and crafts.

But her mind was wandering, and her eyes were following the shifting leaves of a poplar outside the window of the Manse’s 1st floor drawing room. Just starting to tinge with Autumn colours, the poplar leaves twisted and trembled in the day’s light breeze. Silver – green – silver again, like a shoal of herring in the air ….

“Fiona? Are you listening?” Jack Maggs’s gruff voice cut through her reverie. “Agnes said she’d set up a marquee for teas and cakes.” Agnes Samson ran the Tuppeny-Hapenny Tea Room, and normally didn’t participate in the Market.

Agnes cleared her throat, pinning Fiona with a beady eye. “With the numbers we’re talking about, it’s best to make an effort outside,” she said primly. “I won’t be having that lot inside my tearoom all at once. It would be pandaemonium.”

Fiona returned her gaze blankly.

“But what about the baker stall?” cut in Roger Hanson, the baker. “I’ve always supplied the cakes and pastries for the Market. And the teas,” he finished, glaring at Agnes, who haughtily refused to return his look. “She’s not even part of the committee, I don’t know why she’s even here,” he snarled as a final retort.

“Gentlemen, Ladies, please,” put in Morag McKillop. Fatigued by her night’s vigil and preoccupied by her own personal worries, she was still on top of the discussion, trying to see a way through that would satisfy everyone. Fiona being so distracted wasn’t helping. “Fiona, what do you think of this?” she asked in a commanding, but not sharp voice. The effect was to draw everyone’s attention, Fiona’s included, without anyone feeling resentful of her input. “Agnes isn’t a regular merchant for the Market, but with the numbers anticipated, her expertise and resources would be better suited to cater the teas and coffees – ” She raised her hand to cut off Roger’s protestation – “but it wouldn’t be fair for her to provide cakes as well, see Roger’s well-established catering over the years. You could even discuss running a joint stall on a profit sharing basis – ” Agnes opened her mouth to protest, but Morag quickly intervened – “Of course, you could split the cost of the stall as well.

Other members of the committee jumped in to voice their concern with this seeming favouritism, and with the rising voices Fiona seemed to crumble in front of Morag, who decided it was time to go from “concerned” to “seriously worried”.

“Jack,” Morag said suddenly, and Jack Maggs turned to her. “I think Fiona’s not well. Can you take the meeting from here?”

“What?” He glanced at Fiona, whose head was sunk into her hands now. “Oh – aye, of course, do – you know – the necessary. Put her to bed – or whatever.” Ever awkward about other’s emotions, he was clearly troubled, then grateful as Morag when to Fiona and led her slowly from the room amid general well-wishing from all present.

“Now,” said Jack as they exited, he in sole charge for once, “let’s talk meat.”

#

“You must think me a doddery old woman,” said Fiona as they made their way slowly up a flight of stairs to Fiona’s bedroom on the 2nd floor. “But I’ve hardly been ill a day in my life. Even when Cynthia was born, I – ” She seemed to swoon, and Morag had a moment of panic as she supported Fiona’s full weight, precariously balanced between one stair step and the next – but Fiona recovered herself straight away.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” she repeated weakly as they made their way to the landing above and into Fiona’s bedroom. Morag only murmured, “Don’t worry, Fiona, you’ll soon be your old self again.”

“You see, I hardly slept last night – just lay awake for hours, worrying, and now I’m just so tired ….”

Sitting on the side of her bed, Fiona submitted meekly to Morag’s undressing her, hardly seeming to notice the younger woman as she removed her clothes, and slipped a night-gown over her head. Morag actually had to gently lift Fiona’s arms to thread them into the sleeves of the gown.

Then Fiona sank like a stone onto her bed, closing her eyes immediately as Morag pulled the light duvet over her. But Fiona managed to flutter her eyelids a last time and asked, “Morag, my dear, did you ever make more of that lovely infusion? You know, the one I drank when you so kindly invited me into your home? I know you’re a very private person, so that was really ….” She seemed to drift off mid-sentence. Morag leaned over and brushed the hair from her face.

“Yes, I’ve made more, and I’ll bring some around for you,” she answered, though she wasn’t sure Fiona could still hear her.

“Thank you,” whispered Fiona, a small smile on her lips; she sighed and her whole body relaxed into sleep.

Morag sat watching Fiona, making sure she had really sunk into sleep this time. She was disturbed. Even had she been ill, Fiona would most likely have put up more of a fight against it. But her will and strength seemed to have sapped away. She couldn’t imagine Fiona submitting to being undressed and put to bed like a child in normal circumstances.

Looking around the room, Morag was intrigued, but unsurprised at the accoutrements of Fiona’s bedroom, this glimpse into her private life.

Good quality, heavy furniture of an old-fashioned style. Antiques, some of it, but not guarded and cloistered away. Antiques in everyday use – as they were originally intended.

She stood over Fiona’s dressing table. Her ivory-handled brushes, toilet articles and lacquered make-up case. But also, things belonging to the Colonel, Fiona’s late husband, still carefully arranged next to her own. The Colonel’s things were done in tortoise-shell – comb, nail brush, straight-razor – and odd looking clippers that Morag could only conclude had to do with something obscure like trimming nose-hair.

A large oval mirror, set in a scrollwork frame, was affixed to the dressing table. Although she knew she shouldn’t, Morag loosened her hair from the clips that held it up today, and letting it flow over her shoulders, took up Fiona’s brush and began brushing her own hair. She checked the mirror – yes, Fiona was still asleep.

The brush moved easily through her fine hair. She brushed a few strokes on either side, then put the brush down her hand still resting on it. Morag closed her eyes.

She could hear Fiona, breathing heavily now, and a carriage-clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She became aware of the sound of the sea booming on the cliffs below the manse. Gulls. Then the murmur of voices carrying faintly from the drawing room below her. She stilled her mind and let the sensations of the quiet room eddy around her.

In her mind’s eye an image was forming. It was tiny pinpoints of light on a dark field. It might have been stars, but she knew it was the lights of the town. Newhame. Dark land mass consolidated around the lights. But there was no sky or sea – just the land and the town with her lights on.

The lights – surely there had been more of them. And now Morag could see them dimming, winking out. A heaviness, unnatural, lay over the town, and Morag sensed a presence almost as if someone was snuffing the life out of each light, one by one.

The town grew darker, the darkness grew larger, enveloped more of the town, until there was a single light left. The stillness in Morag’s mind felt oppressive, as the one light left seemed to grow larger, seemed to move closer. She could make out the house – it was the Manse. Dark but for one window, upstairs. Closer still, she could make out a single candle flame, steady in all that heavy darkness. The window grew closer, the flame grew brighter – she could see inside, it was this room, Fiona’s room, and someone was sleeping in the bed. And as Morag was finally able to see clearly who was in the bed, the flame of the candle guttered, and went out.

Morag opened her eyes, but for a moment saw only darkness still. Then, like a broken film projector stuttering into life, the apparent world came flooding back in – the carriage-clock, the gulls, the murmur of voices downstairs – but one sound wasn’t there – the sound of Fiona’s breathing. Morag stood and stumbled towards the bed. Fiona lay on her back, ashen-faced. Quickly, Morag grabbed a hand mirror from the dressing table and held it under Fiona’s nose. She almost collapsed with relief when a slight mist gathered on the mirror’s surface. Morag lay the mirror down, then held Fiona lightly on the shoulder.

“Fiona,” she said softly, squeezing the older woman gently. No response. Louder, she said, “Fiona, wake up!” She shook her a little harder. Still no response. She patted Fiona’s cheek lightly, then more sharply. Nothing.

Morag looked around the room. Trust Fiona to keep her boudoir free of modern contraptions like telephones. She left the room and clunked down the stairs two at a time, bursting into the committee meeting with no warning, and standing on no ceremony.

“Call the doctor!” she commanded no one in particular. Robert Hanson whipped out his mobile and quickly found the number of the local G.P.

“What is it?” asked Agnes Samson sharply. Morag knew the tearoom owner had some knowledge of herbology, so she told her – pale, cool, shallow breathing, not responding to stimulus. Agnes stared off into space, obviously running the symptoms through her repertoire of ailments and folk medicine. “No fever, you say?”

“None,” confirmed Morag, who took Robert’s phone at his signal, and repeated it all to the G.P.

After a moment, she handed the phone back to Robert, informing them, “He’s calling for an ambulance.”

“I’ll go up and have and look, and wait with her,” said Agnes.

Morag smiled grimly and waved her on. Yes, any port in a storm. Agnes could be deeply unpleasant, but she was a canny woman, and if anyone in Newhame could diagnose and prescribe outside the ken of allopathic medicine, it would be she.

Downstairs, a door slammed. A young bright voice called up, “Nan, you there?”

Morag covered her face with her hands. Lydia home from school. Jack started to get up and go down to her, but Morag put her hand on his arm. “No, let me, Jack. Could you call Cynthia? I think there’s an address book on the phone table in the hall, you’ll probably her work number in there.” Jack nodded.

Lydia was coming up the stairs now, sounding worried.

“Nan? Where are you?”

Morag took a deep breath, steadied her nerves, and went out to break the bad news to her young apprentice.

Newhame – Chapter 16

Henry Higgenbotham looked away from the computer screen and rubbed his weary eyes. He knew you weren’t supposed to stare at the screen for hours, but he always forgot and the result was a cracker of a headache – much like the one coming on now. He winced as the throbbing commenced.

Henry pushed his chair back and took in his surroundings again, after so long in cyberspace. The tiny, rustic room, furnished with the table, chair, laptop computer, and a single bed. There was also a small wooden washstand with a large china jug and enamel bowl. Henry went to the stand, poured some water into the basin, and splashed his face with it, using a towel hanging from a rail on the side of the washstand to dry himself.

Yes, a tiny room, and yet he preferred it to the larger but soulless chalet he’d been, until late, residing in. It was only a step from the table to the washstand, a step to the bed, a step to the door. He made that last step and went outside.

A woodland glade – sunlight filtering through the trees. Henry supposed the cable for the computer’s broadband must be buried. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that just when he needed it most he had his retreat. He heard, but couldn’t spot, a woodpecker somewhere close by. Plus a lot of other birdsong he couldn’t identify. Some druid!

Henry reached inside and lifted the chair out, placing it on the dry woodland ground. Even to his untrained eye, the country here seemed parched. Very un-Scotland-like, or so everyone told him. And even for a first-time visitor he could see it was unnatural. Plants that looked as if they should be lush seemed to be suffering. Again, what they were, he had no idea. He frowned this time. He really needed to start giving the natural history side of his philosophy more care and attention. After all, he’d first started with druidry to re-establish a connection with the natural world. But that was the one area where he’d never made much headway.

Henry shifted the chair so that he sat in a strong shaft of sunlight. His headache seemed to be subsiding, but his mind was still spinning with the information he’d been collecting. Too many loose ends, too fractured. He couldn’t see how to put all the pieces together.

He stood up. He needed to move, to let his body stretch. He usually did his best thinking on his feet anyway. Henry put the chair back into the hut, locked the door (city paranoia) and set off on a path through the trees he had become very familiar with.

The path wound circuitously through the wood – a deer path, he reckoned. Hardly wider than a foot, he’d made it slightly more distinct during the fortnight he’d stayed in the cabin. Past the solitary birch tree – he recognised that one anyway – through endless scots pines whose needles padded the forest floor with plush softness. And as he walked, the sound which was distant and indistinct from the cabin became louder, more identifiable: the sound of the restless sea crashing to shore.

Henry came out of the trees on a narrow strip of dried grass that lay between the forest eaves and a cliff that plunged to the sea. He admired the view for a moment – the cliff descended to the left, climbed to the right a short distance to a headland, and below, a rocky stretch of coast, pocketed with secluded sandy coves. He turned left and after a few steps started down a narrow path that traversed the the incline. At this point the cliff gave way to a steep but less precipitous grassy slope. Even so, he still had to scramble over boulders to finally set foot at sea level.

Oh. This was odd. Footprints. For the first time, evidence that someone had been here before him. His eyes followed the small prints of bare feet back to where they emerged around a rocky outcrop to the left. That was some relief anyway. Whoever it was had not come the same way as he had, and so was unlikely to have been near his retreat in the woods.

A shout from the sea brought Henry’s head up with a jerk. Someone was swimming. Yes, now he spotted the pile of clothes strewn across a rock to this right. Female clothes unless he was much mistaken. Narrowing his eyes, he could see blond hair and a head bobbing about 50 yards to sea. The person gave him a wave. He waved back.

He took a step closer to the clothes, then smiled. The large-size diaphanous wrap. Various pieces of copper and jade jewellery – it could only be one person – Isabella Arnott. Hmm, no towel, so it couldn’t be a premeditated swim, and yet she had left her underwear with her other clothes on the rock. Indications were of a case of opportunistic daylight skinny-dipping, pure and simple.

Another hello from the sea, and this time Henry could plainly see it was she – swimming closer in to shore, her features a bit clearer now. He settled himself comfortably on the rock next to her clothes. Not that he was dying to see Mrs Arnott in the buff, but he took an admittedly cruel pleasure at the prospect of her embarrassment. After all, she had embarrassed him often enough.

But it didn’t seem to be working. She rose from the sea like a voluptuous goddess. Henry was a bit shocked, actually. He was expecting someone more, well, corpulent. In fact she reminded him of Titian’s painting of Venus Anadyomene which hangs in the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh. And she was smiling and wringing her long hair, as Venus does in that famous painting.

“‘Enry,” she called out when she finally stepped from the sea to strand. “I told myself this was you. What some pleasant surprises there are.”

She was totally unabashed in her nakedness, and Henry’s anticipation of delight at her embarrassment recoiled on him – he suddenly became aware of his situation – alone on a secluded beach with a naked woman who seemed pleased to see him. He looked away abruptly, but then looked back at her just as quickly. Was this a game she was playing with him? He saw her grinning, and knew it was. Who was going to crack first? Well, it wouldn’t be him.

“Izzy,” he called cheerfully, raising his hand in salute. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Oh, ‘Enry,” she sighed, coming over the sand to the rock where he and her clothes sat, still wringing her extraordinarily long, thick hair. Henry remained, calm, impassive, as if they were meeting in the Tuppenny Ha’penny Tea Room. “‘Enry, you are probably not knowing this, but I really ‘ate someone calling me that name.” She shuddered and broke out in gooseflesh all over her body. Henry was surprised at the physiological reaction. But he kept his cool.

“And why is that, then? It’s a perfectly acceptable pet name for Isobel or Isabella in this country.”

Surprise upon surprise, she sat next to him and took his hand. “‘Enry,” she said, “If I am telling you a secret, a story I am never telling anyone other, not Jeffrey even, are you promising to keep the secret in your heart?”

Henry was torn. He most certainly did not want to be beholdened to Isabella in any way, and yet the prospect of knowing a secret something about her past was irresistible. However, he should maintain a sense of decorum. He stood, pretending to spot an interesting shell, completely nonchalant, saying as he stood, releasing her hand and stepping away, “Why of course, Izzy, you have my complete discretion.” He stopped and gathered one or two inconsequential shells to examine.

He glanced over to find here reclining on a flat space on the rock. She caught his glance, and stretched luxuriously. The tart, he thought.

“I am forgetting to bring a towel, so this is best way for me to dry my body,” she explained, arranging herself spread-eagled on the rock. Oh, you’re good, thought Henry, Very good. But I think you’ll find I’m made of sterner stuff.

“Go right ahead,” Henry said magnanimously. He scanned the skies, hoping for a rain cloud, but rain cloud came there none.

“‘Enry,” she said, piteously. “Come sit by me here. I am telling you a deep secret that hurts me to say it. You are so far away, you might not hear my words in your heart from there.”

Henry looked over, suddenly touched by her words. She sounded to be genuinely struggling. Her face was etched with worry lines, and were those tears in her eyes? By St. Crispin, so there were! He hurried over and perched on the rock, taking her outstretched hand. “I’m listening with my heart,” he answered her.

Afterwards, thinking back, Henry knew this was when he was at his most vulnerable. Isabella could have played him for all she was worth at this juncture, and who knows what the outcome might have been.

She sighed, and seemed to relax. She squeezed his hand once, then used her hand to shade her eyes from the sun as she spoke.

“When I was a little girl, my Father spent all his money on a bad business. He was cheated by his partner, may he rot in hell!” She spat symbolically to the left. “So my Mother and Father sent me and my brother to America to live with my Uncle and his wife for awhile – until the business got better again. I called him my Uncle, we called all our man relations by Uncle. I think he was my Father’s cousin.” Her voice turned malevolent. “And he called me Izzy!

“Anyway, we flew over to their house in Mary Land. He was a touristic fisherman in the Bay of Chesapeake. He took peoples fishing for big moneys. Georgio and me went out on Uncle’s boat very often. He was a nice man, we thought. One day ….”

There was a pause as Isabella took a deep breath. Henry quickly said, “You don’t have to tell me this story, you know, Isabella. I see it’s a painful memory.”

“No, you should know this if you want to understand me, ‘Enry. I was at that man’s power. We were alone on the boat one hot summer day – why not? He very often went out with his boat, it was normal, until … one day …”

“Isabella -”

“No. I change my mind. You say you listen with your heart, but how I know you will keep what I have to say there, inside you? No, a man with too much power – is not good. I tell you, you know things about me, you have power. Mystery is better, yes?”

Henry felt miffed, without quite knowing why. He didn’t want to know this woman’s trashy secrets anyway. Still, he wanted to think he was trustworthy, and for some strange reason he wanted her to think so to.

“Isabella, I swear to you — “

“No! Don’t swear, don’t make an oath you cannot fulfill. Something bad happened that day, so from that day I make an oath to me, to never be under anyone’s power. Not my uncles, not you, not even my husband. Jeffrey and me, we have an understanding. See, our marriage is an old-fashioned one. Not for love, no, for advantage and power – and once we thought for dynasty. But no babies,” she sighed, her hands back on her belly. “No babies, even though I have not stopped trying after Jeffrey couldn’t come to my bed any more. But no matter who I try, no babies. So I know it is my womb that is barren.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Henry, though it has to be said without complete honesty.

“So, ‘Enry. Are you are thinking right now that maybe you is the one who is giving me babies?” She looked at him, slowly running her hands up and down her thighs.

For Henry that broke the spell. He almost laughed, but checked himself at the last second. Instead he managed a regretful smile. “I’m going to have to pass, Isabella. Tempting though the offer is.”

Isabella smiled again as she sat up next to him. “I have my eye on you, ‘Enry. I know you love Morag McKillop and are wanting only her. Am I right?”

Maddeningly, Henry could feel himself blushing. “That’s none of your business, my dear,” he blustered. His embarrassment caused Isabella no end of amusement, and Henry was relieved when a phone rang – Beethoven’s Fifth again – from inside the pile of her clothes.

She looked at the display, put it to her ear and said, with a purr in her voice, “Ciao Leo. Okay. Yes, tell him I am just out of the water for a swim.” She mouthed the words Do you want to speak to Jeffrey? to Henry, but he just frowned and waved the phone away as she grinned at him. “Yes, of course I am alone, who else would be with me, ‘Enry ‘Eeggenbotham?” Even Henry could hear the roar of laughter from the other end, and his eyes narrowed with hatred. “Okay, see you soon darling. Ciao,” she finished, and began to dress, chuckling all the while. “Still,” she said finally, swathed again in her swirling clothes, “don’t put all your chickens in one basket, ‘Enry. I could be a useful lover for you -” She chucked him under the chin. “-if you ever changed your mind.” And still smiling, she turned and made her way back across the sand the way she had come.

Henry shook his head, turned back toward the cliffs, and almost jumped out of his skin as out from behind a spur of the cliff stepped Hamish Donaldson.

“She’s a remarkable lady,” Hamish said wryly. “Remarkable, but very odd as well.”

“For heaven’s sake, how long have you been there?”

Hamish burst out laughing. “Long enough to be impressed with the both of you.”

“Christ,” said Henry, joining Hamish on the steep climb back up to the wood, “that was the longest half-hour of my life.”

“Aye, you’ve earned a reward, lad. How about a stiff double scotch and soda to round off your afternoon?”

Henry had to admit he hadn’t had such a good offer in a long, long time.

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.

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.

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.

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 ….”

Newhame – Chapter 2

Henry Higgenbotham was not a man to start his drinking so soon after lunch, but his appointment was in the village pub, The Silver Darlings, where he made his way by turning right at the top of Cat Loan and crossing over the road.

Entering the pub, Henry marveled at the lack of marketing nous displayed by some people in Newhame. This place could have been given over to faux-witchy memorabilia – broomsticks, crystal balls and the like, since that brought in the majority of the town’s tourist trade. Instead The Silver Darlings held steadfast to the dim and distant fishing tradition of the town. What little decor there was consisted of faded images of the town’s ancient mariners from the days of grainy black and white photography. Henry ordered a Guinness, and the landlord said, “I’ll bring it over when it’s done pouring.” Henry noted his Irish accent and felt his pint was in safe hands.

While the stream of black nectar trickled into his glass, Henry took a closer look at the photos on the walls. “Now them were the days!” the landlord called over. “When men were men.”

“And the sheep were nervous,” Henry chuckled, finishing the joke.

The landlord looked him up and down, then said, “No, that’s Wales you’ll be thinking of, sir. No, not a sheep shagger among those lot. They’d be too tired to get it up, after a long day out on the briny deep.” He came out from behind the bar where Henry’s pint glass was just approaching the half-full mark. “See, my own Da was a fisherman over in the old country.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “I thought this was the old country.”

“To you, maybe,” said the landlord, shrugging. “Not to me. Galway is where my people are from, though I don’t remember much of the old place myself. By the way, the name’s Leary. Tim Leary.” Catching the look Henry’s face, he was quick to add – “No relation! No, I’ll not be doing with hard drugs, LSD and such. Ale and stout are mind-bending enough for the likes of me, I can assure you … Mr …?”

“Higgenbotham. Henry.” He shook the landlord’s hand.

“The very man!” said the landlord. “A chap rang not five minutes before you came in, a Mr Arnott. I’m to tell you he’s been delayed but you’re to wait. And he’s paying for whatever you’re drinking, and you can’t say fairer than that, now can you Mr Higgenbotham.”

So saying he reached behind the bar and flipped the handle on the Guinness tap. The last drop lingered on the lip of the spout, then fell with a plink onto the top of the perfectly formed pint.

“No,” replied Henry, taking the pint from Leary’s outstretched hand. “I guess you can’t.”

“Well, then,” said Leary knowingly, “I’ll just let you get on with that pint in peace, Mr Higgenbotham.” He retreated behind the bar to study a racing form while Henry settled himself at a table for the front window, overlooking Newhame Bay, and waited.

#

Fiona Blyth, mistress of the Old Manse, chairperson of the Farmer’s Market committee, and general village grand dame, didn’t miss much that went on in the village of Newhame; so it was no surprise that she saw Henry descend Cat Loan, ascend it again, and make his way to the pub, from the perfect vantage point of Maggs the Butcher.

She was commiserating with John Maggs as she watched Henry go down the Loan. John’s wife had recently left him, which hadn’t helped his already dour disposition. Not ordinarily a big talker, a sense of grievance and loneliness had loosened his tongue, and Fiona was getting the full story while he slowly wrapped her lamb chops, sausages, and pork medallions.

“Aye, you’d no believe it of her, ken,” he said, shaking his head. “And him a travelling salesman!” He barked out a short, bitter laugh. “I mean, how clichéd is that? Unbelievable ….”

Fiona wanted to tell him it was all too believable.

Shirley Maggs had been – was – a vibrant woman, exuding sexuality and joie de vivre from her very pores; what it must have been like for her married to such a lugubrious, po-faced numpty like John Maggs, Fiona could only guess at and shudder. Talented butcher he was, there was no denying it, but he was such a boring bastard …. Fiona looked at him pityingly. She knew for a fact he wasn’t a day over 35, but he carried himself like a man twice his age.

Still, Fiona wanted to stay in the shop and track the progress of the curious American who had recently seemed to take up residence somewhere in or around Newhame. It was maddening. Even with such a extensive web of contacts as she had, she had only been able to get the barest details – his name, his favourite cut of meat and the fact that he took the Guardian every morning. So, since Magg’s shop was the prime viewing platform for doings in the village, she humoured John with a pitying question.

“A traveling salesman? Tsk tsk tsk, how humiliating! Don’t tell me it was that weasly little man who supplies Morag with her magical beads? What’s his name? Something daft ….”

“Star-Raven!” John spat the name out. “Bloody poser. Coyote Star-Raven if you’d like it in full. Him with his baldie heid and beard, and woolen robes – woven on fairy looms nae doubt ….”

Fiona was only half-listening. She watched as Henry trotted along to The Silver Darlings. She had watched with interest his conversation with Morag down the Loan in front of her house. She guessed that Morag knew something and was stringing him along. Fiona looked on Morag as a friendly rival to the post of village wise-woman. Half Fiona’s age, Morag seemed to know a tremendous lot without actually trying, and Fiona envied her talent for nosing out seemingly un-nosable information.

“You poor thing,” said Fiona, sensing something was up and not wanting her leave her perch just yet. She knew Maggs only needed a little encouragement to set him off again. “What’s the latest then, John? Is there any hope she’ll come back to you?” Fiona felt vaguely horrible for getting his hopes up for her own crass ends, but needs must was always her motto.

John snorted. “Nae danger, hen! Nah, I did speak to her the other day. She was nice and all, but she was only being polite. She said there wasnae any chance of reconciliation, she’s in love with the bastard and she couldn’t leave him, he’s her soulmate! Her SOULMATE! HAH!” He slammed his palm on the glass counter top, and Fiona was so startled she almost missed the silver Mercedes purr down the High Street and glide to a stop in front of the pub.

Desperately wanting to keep John talking and watch the giant bald man in sunglasses step from the driver’s side and open the passenger door, she muttered, “Surely there’s always hope, John,” although she knew perfectly well that the chances of Shirley coming back to Newhame were roughly the same as her staying with Mr Star-Raven – that is to say, nil.

She threw a fleeting, commiserating, pitying smile at John, then looked back just in time to see a woman step from the Merc. Yards of flowing purple floated around her in no particular shape; loosely cut, Fiona’s discerning eye noted, to disguise a pretty chunky figure. Yes the nascent double chin told the whole story: young(ish) but already running to fat.

The woman wafted along the pavement and into The Silver Darlings. It was more than Fiona could take. She quickly paid John, patted his cheek and said, “There there, there’s plenty more fish in the sea, John,” but not believing a word of it, and rushed in an almost unseemly haste from the shop and along the street to the pub. If she was lucky she just might be able to steal a march on Morag McKillop, and that was worth a minor social faux pas any day of the week.

Newhame – Chapter 1

If you stand on the High Street in Newhame and face out to the Bass Rock, behind you will be the main shops of the town: Maggs the Butcher, The Tuppenny Ha’penny Tea Room, a small but thriving bakery – Hanson’s – who have recently expanded into whole foods with modest success. Two charity shops, a cheap new junk shop (Only a Pound), O’Brien’s Antiques, Farragon’s Fishmonger, Cheap as Chips chip shop, and of course The Silver Darlings, the village pub run by Tim Leary. A small Co-op food store rounds out the small but perfectly formed town centre.

In front of you, tumbling down to the rocky shore are three “streets”, consisting of flights of weathered wooden steps – the old residential part of town, once fisherman’s cottages, these are a curious, uncharacteristic mix of stone houses and timber-framed buildings that would seem more at home on America’s New England coast.

Walk along until you are opposite Maggs the Butcher, and you will be standing at the top of Cat Loan, the central flight of steps. Look down the steps and at the foot is a Celtic Cross erected on a flat platform of stone at the town harbour, above the high water line.

If you took it into your head to wander down for a look at the cross, your attention might be caught by a sign on the door of one of the stone cottages:

“Cat’s Cradle
Esoteric Sundries
Morag McKillop, Prop.”

Open the door, perhaps hesitantly, to the tinkle of Buddhist prayer chimes hanging over the doorway, and step inside

Morag McKillop looked up from her computer in the tiny office just off the shop premises when she heard the chimes tinkle. She looked despairingly at her tax calculator program. Understanding it all seemed so close, and yet so far away. But it was without regret that she shoved back her swivel chair and went into the shop.

A man had come in, middle-aged, portly, bespectacled. He looked over at her, smiled, said, “Hi!” in an unmistakably American way, and returned to perusing the shelf with the tarot cards.

“I have an album with the decks displayed if you you’d like to see them more closely,” offered Morag, taking the two-ring binder from under the counter and opening it for her customer.

“Oh! Thank you very much …,” he said, coming over immediately. “Fascinating …,” he said, half to himself as he paged through the dozen or so pages of card samples. “All these different takes on a basic set of images. Do you find they take on slightly different meanings for you when you use the different decks?” He looked up at her, glasses slipping down to the end of his nose with the sudden movement.

“What makes you think I read Tarot?” asked Morag.

The man looked embarrassed. “Oh, no reason, I just thought that … you have such an extensive line … you must be … well … uhm, do you do readings by any chance?”

Morag laughed.

Pity poor Henry Higgenbotham. How often does a person actually fall in love at first sight?

Try to see Morag through his eyes. Five foot eight inches to his five foot nine, she looks him steadily in the eye on his own level. Thin, catlike, long, deep brown straight hair, shot here and there with streaks of grey – that falls like a satin sheet over her shoulders and down to the middle of back. Dressed today all in black, polo neck jumper accentuating her elegant throat, face somewhat weather beaten; what some would call gaunt Henry saw as finely chiselled features – pale skin and startlingly green eyes, freckles – my god, Henry never realised just how attractive freckles could be!

His impressions of the Cat’s Cradle were of a tidy, clean, well-organised shop with the standard inventory of such places: books, jewellery, crystals, and yes, the Tarot decks. Quite a good selection of beads for such a small place, but nothing unusual. The light had struck him, however, as soon as he had come in. The shop was a more modern extension into the yard of the original stone cottage, and its gently sloping roof had a row of skylights that flooded the place with light even on such grey day.

Grey it might have been outside, but in Henry Higgenbotham’s heart a clear light shone.

To Morag, though, no such revelations had yet occurred. The man in her shop was a potential customer, yes, well-dressed and well-mannered, but she thought she knew who he really was. Amused, she decided to bide her time.

“Yes,” she answered. “I do give readings. Are you interested?”

“Uhm, I mean, sure! Why not?” the man grinned, and for the first time the word “attractive” occurred to Morag. She responded with a small smile.

“Shall we make an appointment then?” She took out a diary and placed it on the counter top next to the Tarot album.

The man peered at the upside-down writing. “Do you do many readings – I mean, is business good along those lines?”

Morag looked up sharply, closing the diary with a snap. Before the man could react, she said, “How’s tomorrow night for you? Nine o’clock?”

“Hang on a sec …,” The man took out an electronic organiser from the inside pocket of his jacket. Morag nodded to herself. Her suspicions were being confirmed. Not a holiday maker, this was a man whose time was precious and fully booked. But if he was coming in for a reading he must be staying somewhere nearby. Yes, yes it was all becoming clear.

“Oh – tomorrow at nine? Hmm. Oh, what the hell,” muttering to himself now, “I can reschedule that, move that there …,” He moved a plastic stylus rapidly over the tiny screen of the organiser. Then, firmly snapping it shut, “Yes, tomorrow night at nine. Will I just come here to the shop?”

“No, I’ll show you.” Morag led the way out the front door, onto the wooden landing in front of her house, then left to the gable end nearest the harbour, where a short flight of steps led up to a door on the first floor. “Come up this way,” she said, pointing. Then, “Do you want to come back in and look at anything else?”

Henry hesitated. He really would have liked that a lot, in fact was inclined to see if she wanted to nip up to the tearoom for a coffee, but Morag had guessed right about him – he had an appointment right now. This little excursion had been entirely unplanned.

“I’ll have to pass – but I’ll see you tomorrow – at nine!” he said, tapping his organiser before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. With a little wave, he turned to go back up the wooden steps.

Morag pursed her lips. It was naughty, but … “Come back anytime … Mr Higgenbotham.”

He gave another little wave, then stopped in his tracks. He turned and descended slowly back to her landing, a bemused look on his face.

“You should have said you knew me.”

“But I don’t know you”, Morag replied.

“Then how …?”

Morag tapped her forehead. “Trade secrets. The spirit sees all, knows all.” Then she laughed out loud, and Henry smiled again.

“Tomorrow at nine,” he said, making his way back up the stairs.

“I’ll be here,” Morag said quietly, almost to herself.

Newhame – Prologue

From: Hidden Gems of East Lothian

If you find yourself in the village of Newhame, you know you are off the beaten track.

Nestled on the East Lothian coast between Dunbar and North Berwick, where the Firth of Forth opens to the North Sea, Newhame enjoys the mildest of climates, and one of the great landscape features of Scotland: the Bass Rock rises from the sea directly opposite, at times a glowering hulk, at others an alabaster beacon. In addition, the ancient stronghold of Tantallon Castle sits on the adjacent promontory, still imposing in its senility, even when periodically shrouded in scaffolding.

Once a bustling fishing port, Newhame never had the beaches or stretches of link landscape that helped its larger neighbours attract tourists in greater of lesser numbers once the fisheries declined. Not on a railway line, nor even directly on the main road, Newhame cannot even rely on passing trade to keep its teashop open.

What has stopped Newhame from gently fading from the map altogether has been two groups of people: the farmers, and the witches.

There is a thriving farming community, still, in and around this corner of East Lothian, and Newhame early on jumped onto the “Farmer’s Market” gravy train, that one Saturday a month finds it once more a bustling hive of activity. Although never historically a market town, it has nevertheless plugged a gap in the rural shopping experience of the surrounding commuters and tourists that for some reason its more dynamic neighbours of North Berwick and Dunbar overlooked. This monthly influx of people and stall-keepers keeps Newhame in the consciousness and on the calendars of a wide cross-section of East Lothianites, and even those further afield.

A more select group of visitors also keeps Newhame firmly in its sights. Witches, Druids, and a variety of other Pagans make an annual pilgrimage to this otherwise unremarkable East Lothian village. A nearby woodland campground and rustic holiday chalet park plays host to scores of these sometimes colourful, sometimes Gothic, sometimes naked delegates to the annual “Witches of Lothian” conference.

What has drawn this rather eccentric mix of academics, crystal-gazers, shamans and skyclad celebrants to a cosy corner of a lovely but usually overlooked part of Scotland?

East Lothian has always been noted for its witches, most famously those who were alleged to have raised a storm in the Forth to sink the ship carrying James VI and I, but Newhame’s more sinister claim to fame is that the normally docile villagers roused themselves to an uncharacteristic frenzy to perpetuate the last known execution of a witch in Scotland, as late as 1789 ….

Newhame – a serialized novel – introduction

Friends,

I am proposing to start putting up chapters of my novel-in-progress, “Newhame”, onto this blog to add to my other creative works.

I have put up chapters in the past in a couple of different forms, firstly as a blog, then as pages on a read-only wiki, and now I have come back full circle to a blog format!

I haven’t really made much progress on this over the last year, so the plan is that putting chapters up will spur me on to finish the first draft of the novel before people have caught up to where I am in the writing of it…

So, serialising implies a regular publication schedule, and I propose that Sunday be the day of publication. The first chapter will be put up this Sunday, the 23rd of May.

I’m making no great claims for this, particularly as it is still very much a first draft. I’ve had various comments, both good and bad, so I’ll leave readers to make up their own minds.

My method so far has been to just write on without major revision for the first draft. Part of me feels that serialising it should be a prompt to look at it a little more critically, but I think my emphasis at this point should still be to soldier on ahead, and only stop to revise when the first draft is complete. I realise that this means what I am publishing here might well be patchy, unconnected to other bits, and very much subject to change. However, I will cross those braided streams when I come to them.

As a taster before Sunday, I am putting up the “Prologue” in parallel with this post. As usual, comments welcome, though I will say again that no major changes to this draft will be implemented until the whole is complete. At that point I may well take people’s comments into consideration before embarking on a second draft. But that doesn’t mean I’m not reading them and pondering them!

Enough backstory, on with the show…