‘Yes, fine,’ Grayson muttered, absently. The fat man nodded, a farewell and slouched out of the room.
‘A court case,’ said the actor, looking curiously at Prim. ‘What d’you think that’s about?’
‘I told you,’ she said, batting not an eyelid. ‘I’m just back from Africa. How would I know?’
‘Mm. Yeah, of course. Funny, I had this feeling there was something troubling her, something she wasn’t telling me, but I didn’t press her. Look, if you do find Dawn over the weekend, tell her that if she does have a problem, old Miles’ll fix it for her.’
Prim nodded. ‘I’ll tell her that. I’m sure it’ll be nothing, though. Dawn’s one of nature’s worriers, even when there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’ She took my hand again. ‘Oz, if Dawn’s away till Monday there’s no point in hanging about here. If we leave now we can get back home tonight.’
I followed her lead and stood up. ‘Okay, let’s hit the trail. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miles. We’ll make sure that Dawn’s back on Monday, raring to go.’
We started to leave, but I couldn’t resist. I’m just a punter at heart, after all. ‘I don’t suppose you’d autograph a beer mat, would you?’ I asked. ‘For my Dad, like.’
Grayson laughed, as if reassured that life really did hold no surprises. He took a pen from his breast pocket and scrawled a signature on a Foster’s mat. ‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy the beer next time.’
‘Hold you to that. So long.’
We waved him goodbye and made our way out of the bar, leaving him draining his Fosters.
‘What a nice guy,’ said Prim.
‘Aye, and he fancies your sister too. She could be all right there, if we can just keep her out of the slammer.’
She flashed me a worried smile.
‘Are we really going back to Edinburgh?’ she asked.
‘No thank you very much. I don’t think we want to do that right now. Eventually Mike Dylan will have been through every grocer’s till in town, and he’ll realise we told young Morrow a porky about the fiver. I think we should body-swerve him for now, till we find Dawn. And to be on the safe side we should get out of here too, in case the plods come back looking for us.
‘Tell you what, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen my Dad. We can make it to Anstruther as easily as Edinburgh. Let’s head for there, unless you want to go to Auchterarder.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I need more time to think up a cover story about Dawn. Let’s go to Fife: I fancy meeting the old man who could spawn a son like you!’
In which we dine in style and Mac the Dentist is caught in flagrante
I have this thing about drinking and driving, so I let Prim drive us eastward, retracing our route as far as Lochearnhead, where we followed the Perth road, along the lochside, rather than heading for Stirling. The sun was low in the sky as we left the M90 at Milnathort and cruised around Loch Leven, into Fife.
It’s a funny place, the old Kingdom, my birthplace; a real amalgam of cultures, with its agriculture in the north, its Black Country to the west, and away on its tip, jutting into the sea, its East Neuk.
‘I suppose that the place where you grow up always seems different from anywhere else,’ I said to Prim as she drove, quickly but with assurance, ‘but every time I go back to the East Neuk now, to Anstruther, I feel like I’m stepping into fairyland. Life has a different pace there, as if time passes more slowly. I don’t know another place like it.’
‘I know what you mean. When I was wee, and when Dawn was a baby, we went to Elie for our holidays. We took a house for a month. I remember days on the beach, whatever the weather, and scones and Coca Cola in the tennis pavilion. My Granny came with us; she used to sit all afternoon by the bowling green, watching the play. She didn’t understand what was going on, but that didn’t matter. It was her thing, and she did it.
‘I have this secret dream that one day I’ll live in Elie.’
I frowned and tutted. ‘Us East Neukers don’t really approve of Elie. “Elie for the elite”, we say. Too many of the houses belong to weekenders. My Dad says that when he was a kid, Elie was a working village. It had fishermen, golf-club makers, market gardeners and so on, and everyone let rooms in their houses to holidaymakers. But then more and more of the houses were bought up by folk from Glasgow and Edinburgh, lawyers and doctors and the like. All of a sudden the place was a ghost town in the winter, and there were fewer holidaymakers in the summer too, as those houses weren’t let out any more.
‘Now the second and third generations of weekenders are there. Yuppies, most of them are.’
Prim laughed as my mouth curled with distaste. ‘Intolerant bugger, aren’t you. I’ll bet that in Anstruther, they think you’re a Yuppie too!’ I looked at her in mock horror. ‘No. I’m Mac the Dentist’s son, him that works in Edinburgh. Jan More, she’s the teachers’ lassie, her that used tae hang about wi’ Mac the Dentist’s son. In Enster, there’s no way any of us can get too big for our Wellies.’
‘No,’ she said, almost involuntarily. ‘Otherwise there wouldn’t be room for the sheep.’ I looked at her astonished, but she stayed poker-faced and went on. ‘Do Jan’s parents still live there?’
‘Her Mother does. Her Father, fool that he was, traded her in for a younger model years ago. Lives in the West somewhere. Jan never sees him.’
Prim glanced at me, as she took a corner. ‘You and Jan. It is “used to”, isn’t it?’
‘It is now. Jan and I have known each other since we were in our prams. We were best pals when we were kids. As we grew up, things happened between us almost automatically. Everybody in Enster — that’s Fifer-speak for Anstruther by the way — everyone assumed we’d get married, and I supposed that we did too for a while. But eventually, once we hit our twenties, we realised that we weren’t meant for that. We weren’t on fire for each other. So ever since then we’ve settled for being the best of pals, and occasional lovers. We’ll go on being the best of pals.’
Prim nodded. ‘Good. I like her. Is there anyone else in her life?’
‘There sure is, as you’ll find out in time.’
‘Oooh. Mysterious, is he. I’ll look forward to meeting him.’
The cloak of night was sweeping across the fields as we drove the last few miles, through Colinsburgh, and into Pittenweem. We were both starving, and since Pittenweem’s fish and chip shop is legendary far beyond Fife, we stopped there to pick up supper, and extra chips for my Dad.
The lumpy brown paper parcel was hot in my lap as we swung into Anstruther and pulled into the drive. Dad’s house faces out to sea, and his surgery is built on to the back, so that the patients don’t have to trail through the hall spitting blood on the lino, or worse, on the carpet. Once upon a time that’s how it was, until my Mum put her foot down, and made him move his business out back.
We parked at the side of the house and walked round to the front. The moon was up, turning the cold, blue river mouth to silver. We stopped and looked across Dad’s immaculate garden, and out to sea. ‘This is lovely, Oz,’ said Prim. ‘And you grew up here.’
‘Yup. My Dad would say I’m still growing up.’
I looked up at the big bay window of my Dad’s living room. The curtains hadn’t been pulled — they never were — and the blueish glow of the television shone in the dark. In the window above, my Dad’s bedroom, a light shone.
I have my own key, but when I turned it in the Yale and pushed the front door, it was stopped by a chain. ‘Dad,’ I shouted. ‘It’s me. Come and undo this thing. The fish suppers are getting cold.’ There was no immediate response, and so I rang the bell. Eventually, a muffled cursing sounded from behind the door and the hall light was switched on.
‘For fuck’s sake Oz, you might have let me know!’ My Father’s voice came from behind the door as he fiddled with the chain. After a few seconds, the door swung open wide, and my Dad, Mac the Dentist, stood there, in his big, old dressing gown. His jaw dropped as he saw us, me holding the fish suppers and Prim lugging our travel bag.