Chalmers kicked out, yelling, but Socks was already at the end of the path, stopping to lick the offending paw as though wanting to be rid of the taste. He paused in his grooming and sat flicking his fat tail, all the while regarding Chalmers with utter contempt.
‘I’ll swing for that bastarding cat!’ Chalmers promised as he stomped off back to the van.
Rose opened the press and grabbed the carpet sweeper, running it back and forth under the table where Chalmers’ boots had left the last of their dusty deposit on the rug. Socks had decided to return to the house, and swung himself across the doorway, avoiding the sweeper with the same disdain he more usually reserved for Chalmers.
‘Shoo, Socks! Shoo!’ Rose whispered, hoping the cat would be out of sight before her husband returned. Socks ignored her, sashaying into the hallway and on upstairs to join his master.
Two years before, Barra had found the kitten sniffing about the rubbish bins at the back of the Whig and had brought him home. Rose, unhappy at having an animal in the house, had tried everything to find its owner. But nobody had wanted the stray and, after a week of placing futile ads in the local paper and the shop window, Rose had reluctantly agreed that the cat could stay.
‘We’ll call him Socrates,’ Barra had insisted. ‘You can see how wise he is.’
‘Son, I’m not going to be standing on the doorstep calling “Socrates” every time he needs fed. People’ll think I’m a headcase!’
A compromise was finally reached, and the cat soon learned to answer to Socks. Chalmers, who had no initial objection to keeping the cat, became destined to endure the animal’s unremitting antipathy, for no reason that he could fathom. At first aggrieved by the cat’s attitude, he quickly – and painfully – became aware that Socks would employ any opportunity to sink his claws into Chalmers’ flesh. It didn’t take long at all before he came to detest the very sight of the animal.
Rose could hear Chalmers on his way back. She replaced the carpet sweeper in the press, sighing to herself. Lately it seemed that all her energies had been spent in keeping Barra and Socks as far away from her husband as possible.
And now she could add Sheena Mearns to the list!
Halfway through supper Chalmers’ patience snapped.
‘For God’s sake, son, can you no’ keep still at the table?’ he blared, irritated beyond measure at Barra’s restlessness.
Eating was a serious business for Chalmers. Friday or not, he had a full day’s work in front of him tomorrow and he’d eaten precious little all day today. Rose usually had his piece ready for him each morning before he left, but today he’d insisted he’d be done at the Wilsons’ by lunch, and would have time to nip home for a bite to eat before setting off to examine the old croft at Dunfearn.
The new owners had telephoned from Surrey to ask for an estimate to rewire the croft, and Chalmers knew that they’d probably call a couple of the big boys in Craigourie to compare his quote. He was therefore anxious to get his price in early, in the hope of convincing them that the sooner he could get started, the sooner they could enjoy their holiday home.
It wasn’t to be.
He had been held up at the Wilsons’ by the painter, who’d been held up by the carpenter, who’d been held up by the plasterer. Around eleven o’clock, the painter, the carpenter and the plasterer agreed it would be best if they discussed a workable timetable over a couple of pints.
Chalmers, fuming at this further delay, had thrown his pliers to the floor in disgust. All three seemed surprised, and somewhat disappointed, at this unwarranted show of bad temper.
‘Yir being a wee bittie too anxious, if you ask me,’ the painter informed him. ‘Too anxious altogether,’ agreed the carpenter. ‘It’ll all be here tomorrow,’ the plasterer added, ambling off behind his comrades towards the nearest pub. They did, however, bring him back a can of McEwan’s and a cold pie in recompense, at which point Chalmers had telephoned Rose to tell her he wouldn’t be home for lunch after all.
It took the rest of the day to do what should have been accomplished in a couple of hours, and Chalmers still hadn’t got to Dunfearn. Allowing for the half-hour drive there and back, it would be too close to dusk tonight to survey the croft. He’d just have to set off in the morning, before returning to the Wilsons’ to finish up there.
If Barra would settle himself, he might, he just might, manage to avoid a night of indigestion.
‘What’s got you going now, Barra?’ he asked rhetorically, hoping that, rather than having to contend with an answer, he might convey the extent of his displeasure at Barra’s fidgeting. If Rose wasn’t watching him the way she was – never looking at him, mind you, but watching him just the same – he’d tell the boy either to eat up or leave the table.
Well, things were strained enough lately. If she had any idea of the kind of day he’d had, maybe she’d spring to his defence for a change. But no! Barra – it was always Barra!
‘I got some new stamps today. From Mauritius,’ Barra answered.
Chalmers peered at him. Surely the addition of a few stamps to an already overflowing collection wouldn’t cause this degree of agitation. He shook his head. He’d never understand his son. God knows he loved him. He truly did. But Barra wasn’t in the real world at all half the time.
‘Mauritius?’
‘Aye, Da. They’re gorgeous.’
‘I’m sure,’ Chalmers answered. ‘Now if yir not going to eat your pudding, pass it here.’
‘I am,’ Barra replied. ‘It’s great. It’s great, Mam,’ he assured Rose. She smiled, glad to see that her son’s natural enthusiasm had returned.
Chalmers continued eating. He didn’t want to discuss stamp-collecting. He had never forgotten his own humiliation at Barra’s innocent mirth when he’d asked where ‘Par Avion’ was. Well, he’d seen the blue stickers in the Post Office. It had been easy to mistake them for stamps.
To make matters worse, he had his own father to blame for Barra’s hobby. Shawnie Maclean, a retired postman, had been instrumental in spawning Barra’s interest in stamp-collecting. He and Barra could spend hour upon hour in rapturous attention to the flora, fauna and great peoples of a world yet to be explored – a world which Shawnie often talked of visiting, though he knew he never would.
He and his wife Ola lived in a small cottage on the shoreline of Kyle, a cottage too small to keep their only grandson out of sight – or mind – and the hours spent asleep at their home were hours Barra sorely grudged.
His first blink of daylight was inevitably accompanied by the roar of the ocean and the wheeling, screaming cry of the seabirds, his days filled with adventure and happenings, and his evenings brought gently to a close with fireside tales of myth and legend.
It was a magical place, and Chalmers could understand why Barra loved every minute spent there. What he could not understand was Barra’s total lack of interest in football, or snooker, or any other pursuit more natural for a boy his age than stamp-collecting, for God’s sake.
‘The Cunninghams are coming up,’ Barra ventured.
Chalmers straightened. ‘Are they now?’
‘Aye. Murdo says they are.’
‘D’you know when?’
Barra shrugged. ‘Next week, I think.’
‘Find out, Rose,’ Chalmers instructed. ‘If I could get a word wi’ Stewart, I think I could convince him to get the big house rewired. It’s been needing it for years now.’
‘What about Dunfearn?’