Barra left the trail, and wandered deeper into the woods. The wild ferns were already growing tall here and he startled a small roe deer, who sprang with surprise at his approach, darting off to the left and disappearing – just like Jamie had. Barra wanted to search for the fawn she had surely left nestling nearby but he knew he should leave, lest the mother became too afraid to return to her baby.
He turned back towards the trail, entranced by the dappled light which threw mosaics of sunshine across his path. As he reached the mound and clambered on to the old log, he was smiling again. The log was warm and smooth beneath him, and he let his hands play against its ancient surface.
Below him the loch glistened white hot. A soft wind rushed across the surface of a distant field, the grass swaying below it like the waves of an emerald ocean. Barra watched, and waited.
‘Barra! Barra!’
He could hear Rose calling him and suddenly realised he was hungry. Well, not hungry really. Peckish. Yes, that was the word. He set off towards the house.
‘Were you calling me, Mam?’
‘Are you OK?’ Rose was standing at the back door, her hand shading her eyes from the sun.
‘Course.’ Socks appeared from around the shed, brushing his warm furry body against Barra’s legs. He reached to stroke the cat. ‘Is it dinner-time?’
Chalmers had set out one of the deckchairs on the back green and had dozed off in the sun, the Sunday Post spread across his lap. He stirred himself.
‘Are we eating?’ he enquired hopefully.
‘I’ll heat some soup,’ Rose replied, ‘And there’s a bit of Murdo’s salmon in the fridge. We can have sandwiches. I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.’
Chalmers looked vaguely disappointed, then removed his glasses which had fallen sideways across his face, and settled back for another nap.
‘Well?’ Rose prompted, as Barra followed her inside.
‘I told you he’d be there.’ He smiled, relieved to find his mother and father on speaking terms again.
Rose paused from opening the can of tomato soup, and laid the tin-opener on the sink. She turned to face her son.
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No, Mam, I’m not. He was there today. He didn’t stay long. He was gone before I got to the Whig. He says I’m the only one who can see him - and Maisie believes it. I think Doug does too.’
‘You were in the Whig?’
‘Aye, and then I went to the Pascoes’. That didn’t go so well.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Rose asked, a new note of alarm in her voice.
Barra lifted the tin-opener and swung himself up on the draining-board. ‘Well, Mrs Pascoe doesn’t believe in him, or God – or anything. She got a bit mad at me,’ he confessed, spinning the butterfly of the tin-opener with his finger.
‘Put that down!’ Rose commanded.
Barra laid it down, and looked at her.
‘You stay away from Jennifer with this nonsense, Barra. I’m warning you now.’
‘It’s not nonsense, Mam. It makes perfect sense. Why else would an angel be in Drumdarg, if it’s not to help Mr Pascoe? Nobody else needs one – not here.’
Don’t they now, Rose asked herself. ‘What Jim and Jennifer both need is their privacy, Barra. You stay away, d’you hear?’
Barra looked fit to burst. ‘It’s really, really true, Mam. You’ve got to believe me. I wouldn’t lie about it.’
‘God,’ Rose sighed, folding her arms across her chest. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’
‘About what? And are we getting something to eat or not?’ Chalmers appeared in the doorway and scanned the room, his eyes settling on the unopened can of soup.
‘D’you want me to get that?’ he offered, lifting the tin-opener.
‘If you like,’ Rose answered absent-mindedly. She opened the fridge, and began pulling out lettuce and tomatoes. She set them on the table and looked at them. ‘The salmon,’ she murmured, reopening the fridge to reach for the Tupperware container.
Chalmers grimaced. Tupperware had recently been introduced to the village via Sally Walker who, not content with selling Avon cosmetics to every woman in the place, was now arranging ‘parties’ from here to Inverness.
He guessed that Rose had bought more than she’d intended to at the last get-together, and was now putting all sorts of things in the evil containers in an obvious attempt to justify her extravagance. Chalmers was utterly convinced that the plastic permeated the food in some way, destroying the natural goodness of it.
‘Rubbish!’ Rose had commented when he’d raised the point.
‘What were you talking about, son?’ Chalmers asked, returning to the tomato soup.
Rose straightened, flashing Barra a warning glance. She met the pleading in his look and closed her eyes briefly, indicating her permission. Perhaps it was better if Chalmers did know. He might have some idea how to handle it all.
Barra relaxed, aware that he had at last gained his mother’s approval.
‘There’s a boy I met in the woods, Dad. His name’s Jamie, and he’s … he’s …’
Somehow, it seemed harder to tell his father than he’d thought. He regretted not having told him last night. It would have been easier then, just the two of them, especially after Dad had had a few drams.
‘Spit it out,’ Chalmers said, peering over his glasses, which he’d rested on the end of his nose for fear of mislaying them again.
‘He’s an angel.’
Chalmers peered even harder at his son and then, unexpectedly, threw his head back and guffawed with laughter.
‘A bloody angel, is it? Well, trust you, Barra. Trust you!’ Chalmers’ laughter degenerated into a coughing fit, as it inevitably did. ‘Damn cigarettes,’ he spluttered, fighting to regain his breath. ‘I’ll give them up as soon as they get to six bob a packet.’
Rose snorted. Cigarettes had gone up to five-and-five just the past week. Chalmers had been swearing to give them up since ever they’d reached three-and-eight.
Barra seemed unperturbed, but there was a hard glint in his eye. ‘I didn’t expect you to believe me.’
Chalmers looked at Rose.
‘You’re not believing this?’ he demanded.
‘He’s convinced of it,’ Rose said quietly.
‘You don’t believe it?’
Rose shrugged again.
‘Well, this takes the biscuit! The Yaks must’ve given you one too many thumps in the head, son. That’s all I can say.’ Chalmers finished opening the soup and all but threw the tin-opener in the sink.
‘And you’re worse than he is,’ he flung at Rose, before setting off back into the garden. Socks had curled up in the deckchair and was fast asleep. Chalmers didn’t risk disturbing the cat and chance another ripping. He marched back inside, and threw himself down on the sofa.
‘It’s getting too hot out there,’ he said, passing through the kitchen for the second time. Barra and Rose were just as he’d left them. It’d be teatime before he’d get his bloody dinner at this rate.
‘Your girlfriend’ll be here by now,’ Chalmers remarked, looking at his watch. ‘The bus would’ve got here half an hour ago.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend!’
‘Well, maybe she’ll keep yir mind off spooks and the like!’
Rose glared at him.
Chalmers sighed. He’d never get out of the doghouse at this rate. They’d managed to avoid the mention of angels all the way through the makeshift meal, even though Chalmers could see that Barra was dying to talk about it. He could thank Rose for that. She had managed to change the subject on each occasion, and Chalmers was reluctantly grateful to her.
He smiled at Barra. ‘Och, I didn’t mean it, son.’
Barra fed the last of his sandwich to the cat. Socks laid it down on the grass and began nibbling. The rustle of a bird’s wings in the hedge distracted him, and he set off in stealthy pursuit.
‘Don’t let him chase the birds, Mam,’ Barra urged.
Rose began gathering the soup mugs from the tartan rug she’d laid out on the grass. ‘He’s your cat. And anyway, it’s his nature.’
Chalmers had regained possession of his deckchair as soon as Socks had realised that food was on the go. He lifted his paper and settled back to read it.
‘D’you need a hand?’ he asked Rose, shielding his face.
‘Huh!’ she tutted, and headed for the kitchen.
‘I should be cutting the grass,’ Chalmers remarked to Barra, noticing the carpet of daisies spreading eagerly across the lawn. ‘Still, it’s not often I get a day off. I’ll cut it later. Maybe get a pint in before I start.’
‘I’ll probably just go on down to the Whig now,’ Barra said, in an obvious attempt to appear nonchalant.
Chalmers smiled to himself. ‘See you later, then.’
‘I’m off down to the Whig, Mam,’ Barra called. Rose was already on her way back. She nodded, and sat down again on the rug. As she watched him disappear from view she lifted her head to Chalmers.
‘What did you mean, I’m worse than him?’
‘Och, Rose, I didn’t mean anything.’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘You did.’
Chalmers blew out his lips. ‘OK, maybe I did.’ He frowned. ‘I just don’t think you should be encouraging him to be any … any stranger than he is.’
‘He’s not strange, Chalmers. How can you call yir own son strange?’
‘I don’t mean … I mean … God, Rose, he doesna’ have any normal interests. He couldna’ even tell you who Cassius Clay or Billy Bremner are.’ The frown became a sneer ‘Stamp collecting!’
‘Lots of boys his age collect stamps, and just because he doesn’t want to watch people pulverising each other in a boxing-ring or kicking a stupid ball …’
‘OK! OK, Rose. Forget it. Forget I mentioned it.’
Rose stared up at him, her eyes glinting emerald with hurt and anger. ‘I can’t forget, Chalmers. I can’t forget … anything.’ She sniffed, and looked away.
Chalmers felt his heart twist within him. Looking at her, the sun on her hair, her shoulders hunched in pain, he remembered how they were – how they’d always been. And how much, how desperately, he loved her.
‘Rosie …’ He reached to touch her bare arm, melted at the feel of her flesh, warm, so warm. ‘Rose …’
She didn’t look up, but covered his hand with her own.
‘I couldn’t stand to see him hurt, Chalmers. I don’t want to see anyone hurt.’
‘You never did,’ he murmured. ‘And neither do I.’ An answering squeeze of his hand encouraged him onwards. ‘He’s conjured up a friend for himself. It’s common enough. And we don’t need to be letting that put us at odds …’
‘But he’s so sure of it. And he’s nearly fourteen, Chalmers. You’re always on about how he needs to grow up a bit. Don’t you think that’s a bit old to be making up imaginary friends?’ Rose dropped her arm, and began picking wildly at the overgrown grass.
Chalmers retrieved his hand and shrugged, his jaw once more set. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.’
‘Well, I do! And I think we need to get to the bottom of it.’
Chalmers clenched his teeth.
‘D’you think it’s hormones?’ Rose asked.
Chalmers didn’t care what it was. ‘What’s “hormones”?’ he was forced to ask. He had never heard the word.
‘Y’know – when you’re growing up, and yir body starts … making you want things.’
Unbidden, Sheena Mearns came to mind. He sat up.
‘Who knows? It’ll pass, Rose,’ he said, setting off indoors. He reappeared at the back door with a can of lager in his hand. ‘Want one?’
‘Aye,’ Rose answered, surprising him. He only had one left.
‘There’s just the one,’ he called back, somewhat sheepishly.
‘Why did y’ask then?’
‘Don’t bother yirself.’
Barra didn’t even stop at the clearing. He was almost glad that Jamie didn’t put in another appearance. It had all become too … difficult.
As he approached the Whig, he could see there were two cars in the car park. The café started to get busier when the days got longer; especially on weekends, when people didn’t mind driving out into the country. It was a change from the winter months, when Maisie insisted she’d go bankrupt if it wasn’t for the shop trade.
Nobody believed her, though. Maisie had pots of money.
Barra walked into the kitchen. Doug had just closed the bar for the afternoon, and was helping Maisie with the dishes. His sleeves were rolled up and he was wearing one of Maisie’s pinnies, which he had wrapped twice round himself without any difficulty at all. He glanced over his shoulder.
‘You’re back,’ he remarked. His alcohol levels had been sufficiently topped up for him not to be disturbed by Barra’s reappearance.
‘You’ve got customers?’
‘We do.’
Maisie pushed sideways through the swing door, balancing an armful of plates, cups and saucers. She’d changed into a floor-length red pinafore, under which a red and white spotted blouse sent layers of ruffles cascading across her bosom. A scarlet ribbon held back a high ponytail which swung cheerfully at every move.
‘Isla’s upstairs getting sorted out.’ Maisie smiled. ‘She’ll be down in a minute. We’ve three tables full.’
‘That’s grand.’ Barra smiled back. ‘It’s no’ even Easter yet.’
‘The sun shines on the righteous.’ Maisie laughed, removing a large tub of ice cream from the freezer. She set about scooping three servings into the green plastic shells and decorated each one with a triangular wafer. Reaching for a bottle of strawberry syrup, she drizzled it across the ice cream and, tilting her head back, poured some down her throat before recapping the bottle.
‘Delish!’ she remarked, smacking her lips. Then she placed the plates on a tray and Barra held the swing door open to allow her to return to her customers. He turned his head at the last minute, to avoid having his face crushed by her bosom.
The sound of feet on the wooden staircase caught Barra’s attention. The stairs dissected the kitchen wall and ended on the bar side above the hatch to the cellar, where a second flight led downwards. Barra held his breath as Isla reached the last step, waiting for her to come into view.
As she walked into the kitchen, Barra’s eyes opened wide in admiration. She’d grown taller, a bit, and she was wearing much more make-up than last year. Heavy black eyeliner hooded her eyes, and her mouth was frosted silver. Last year’s titian curls had somehow been pulled poker-straight, falling from a centre parting to her shoulders. A heavy fringe brushed the thick black lashes, and her cheeks had developed mysterious hollows.
She was wearing a green dress which skimmed her figure and ended above her knees, accentuating long white-stockinged legs. Her chest was definitely bigger. Barra tried not to look at it, but he couldn’t help it. It was enormous!
‘What are you staring at, bratface?’ Isla marched past him and into the café. ‘I’ll see if Maisie needs a hand,’ she told Doug.
‘She didn’t mean it. Give her time,’ Doug advised Barra.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Barra breathed, having had no time to recover from Isla’s chest – and barely noticing her rudeness. ‘Ah, God, I hope Jamie gets to see her.’
Doug, slightly befuddled, had forgotten who Jamie was.
‘Who?’
‘My angel.’
‘Who y’calling yir angel?’ Doug grinned, preparing to wash the ice-cream scoop.
‘I was jist telling you … earlier,’ Barra replied, nonplussed at Doug’s forgetfulness.
‘What was that now?’
‘JAMIE!’ Barra shouted, at the end of his tether with it all.
‘WHAT?’ Doug whirled, holding the steel ice-cream scoop aloft ready to batter anyone in striking distance. He was trembling from head to foot.
Doug leaned heavily against the sink and dropped the scoop into the dwindling suds. He reached for his dram, and realised he didn’t have one. Shaking his way towards the bar, he pushed a glass once, twice, three times against one of the optics then knocked back the whisky in a single swallow. A violent shiver shuddered through his narrow frame.
Turning, he walked back to the staircase and reached for the banister post. He fixed Barra with a stare. ‘Tell Maisie I’m off for a lie-down,’ he instructed. ‘And, Barra …’
‘What is it, Doug?’
‘Please don’t be here when I get up.’