“I don’t mind,” Callum said honestly. “Thank ye, Auntie Janet.”
He watched her fondly as she stumped off towards the house, then he went into the barn to finish giving the horses their evening feed. Murphy settled in the straw with a groan of contentment, and the horses rustled in their stalls, watching him expectantly. Dust motes sparkled like glitter in the slanting sunlight; the air smelled of warm horse and fresh hay, with a faint note of dung and the syrupy ripeness of feed. To Callum, the combination of scents was heaven and had been as long as he could remember.
When he had finished the chores, he went out into the stable yard and stood, gazing at the copper ball of the sun as it dropped beyond the river. Smoke rose lazily from the farmhouse chimney and a light glowed in the kitchen window. Beyond the barn, the ancient cow byre he’d con-verted into a cottage cast a long, low shadow, and farther still, the pasture sloped gently to a row of birches that shimmered at the water’s edge. As he watched, a heron took flight from the reeds.
It was a small world, and for twenty-nine years he had thought it perfect and complete. He’d felt no lack of companionship; he had listened to the guests he guided chatter of children and spouses and lovers with an amused detachment, and he’d taken the wee cuddle when it came his way with nary a thought of commitment. More fool he, he thought now, his lips curving in a wry smile.
He’d drive a woman mad, his auntie had said. How could he tell her it wasna a woman he wanted?
Late again. Alison Grant slammed the door of Tartan Gifts and locked it behind her. Tartan Tat, she called the shop when she was feeling uncharitable, which was most of the time. Mrs. Witherspoon, the witch, had made her stay to take inventory on a Friday night, of all times, her
excuse being that they needed to get things sorted before the Saturday rush.
Except that there was no Saturday rush—Tartan Gifts not being the sort of shop that ever had customers trampling down the door. The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Witherspoon, with her violet, permed hair and mustached upper lip, thought being shop manager made her God, and that she had it in for Alison in a big way.
Having spent the last two hours on her knees in the shop’s back room, among dusty boxes filled with thistle-enameled thimbles, tartan teacups, and refrigerator magnets bearing the simpering likeness of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Alison was very tempted to tell Mrs. Witherspoon to stuff it.
She could have a Saturday morning lie-in for a change, watch the telly, maybe do a bit of shopping herself. Alison lit a cigarette and indulged the fantasy for a moment as she took a deep drag, but by the time she exhaled, reality had reared its ugly head. First of all, she had nothing to go shopping with. And she had rent to pay. And then, of course, there was Chrissy.
Alison tugged up her tights where they’d bagged at the knees, eased the strap of her shoulder bag, and started down the hill towards her flat as the lights of Aviemore winked on in the dusk. The road was quiet, except for the traffic in and out of the supermarket. Most shops had closed for the day, but it was still too early for what nightlife the town boasted.
When she reached the forecourt of the flat, she stopped to finish her cigarette before grinding it into the pavement with her heel. She had no place to smoke these days; Chrissy complained if she smoked in the flat, Mrs. Witherspoon would have a coronary if she even thought about
smoking in the shop, and Donald . . . The thought of Donald made her grimace.
Around Donald, she washed her hands to get rid of the smoke smell, and sprayed her hair with perfume. He said tobacco kept you from distinguishing the finer points of a whisky, though personally she couldn’t tell one of the bloody things from the other, cigarettes or no. Not that she’d tell him that, mind—she’d learned to smile and mumble about “sherried oak” and “herbal bouquets” with the best of them.
She had met Donald Brodie at a party three months ago. He wasn’t part of her usual set—but that night he had come with a friend of a friend, slumming, she supposed he’d been, and rattling on to the uneducated about the merits of different whiskies. But he was different, and bonnie enough, and to her surprise she’d found she rather liked listening to him. When he’d noticed her, she had let him pick her up. He’d taken her home to his house by the distillery, and that evening Alison’s life had changed forever.
Benvulin House, it was called, after the distillery. It had been built by Donald’s great-great-grandfather, he told her, in the Scots baronial style. Oh, it was grand, all stone and warm wood, blazing fires and rich carpets and fabrics. This was how people ought to live, Alison had thought, and in that instant’s revelation she had known that it was how she wanted to live.
Not like this, she thought now, gazing up at the damp-discolored concrete that made up the square blocks of her building. With a sigh, she went in and began the climb to her third-floor flat. The stairwell always smelled of urine, and as often as not, the lights were out. It worried her, especially on the short winter days when Chrissy came home alone from school in
the dark, but it was the best she could afford on her pay.
Nor was there anyone else to help out. Chrissy’s dad had buggered off when he learned Alison was pregnant, after claiming the baby wasn’t his, and not even Social Services had been able to track him down since. Alison’s mum lived on her pension in a two-room flat in Carrbridge, her dad having died of lung cancer before Chrissy was born.
And any hope Alison had had that Donald might change things was rapidly fading. He called less these days, and when he did he often made excuses for not being able to see her. Like this weekend—he’d told her he had a business meeting, a three-day conference with some European bigwig. “Right,” she said aloud, and her voice echoed cavernously in the stairwell. If it were true, which she very much doubted, why hadn’t he asked her along? She could have made coffee and been decorative in the corner; she knew when to keep quiet.
But then she’d have had Chrissy with her, and Alison supposed Donald didn’t want a nine-year-old running around interrupting his meetings. Not that Chrissy was ever any trouble, but that odious Heather Urquhart, the distillery manager, would complain.
Alison reached the top landing and unlocked the door to the flat, calling out, “Hi, baby, it’s me.” She sniffed as she hung up her jacket and bag in the tiny entry. Chips and fish sticks again, Chrissy’s favorite.
“I’ve saved you something for tea, Mama,” said Chrissy as Alison came into the sitting room and bent down to kiss her daughter.
“Thanks, baby. I could eat a horse.”
“Mama!” Chrissy protested, but she giggled, the smile lighting her rosy, heart-shaped face. She sat on the floor
in front of the hideous flowered settee—a s hand-me-down from Alison’s mum—and she still wore her jumper and tartan uniform skirt. With her feet tucked beneath her you couldn’t tell that one leg was twisted and shorter than the other. Chrissy had been born that way, a congenital defect, the doctors had told Alison, but it never seemed to occur to the girl that she couldn’t do anything the other children did.
Tonight she had the telly on as usual without the sound. She liked it for “company,” she said, when Alison teased her. Open on the floor beside her was one of her inevitable horse books, and lined up beside the cushions she’d placed in a square was a row of her plastic replica horses.
“Who’ve we got today, then?” asked Alison, kicking off her heels and squatting beside Chrissy as she mas-saged her aching toes.