‘Just … Just that you’re happy with pursuing it. The account.’
Jim reached out, clasping Graham’s arm with one hand and Jennifer’s with the other. ‘Look at me,’ he demanded. Two sets of eyes met his own. ‘All I want is for you to keep going, Graham. Keep rushing, and running, and busy, and alive! Don’t get so bogged down with accounts you forget what it’s like to be alive.’
Jim paused, gathering his breath. ‘And take care of my Jenny …’ he added, stroking her arm, his own eyes filled with an inestimable sadness.
Graham swallowed, hard. ‘You know I will.’
Jim eased back from them both. ‘Good.’ He smiled, though it lasted but a second. ‘What’s the next step?’
Jennifer was trembling slightly. Graham knew it wasn’t fear, for she’d long since faced her fear. Fatigue, then. At ten-thirty on a bright spring morning, he finally began to understand the depth of her fatigue. And, as he shuffled the unopened file back into his briefcase, he realised that he couldn’t wait to get out of here, out into the sunshine, and away from them both. Out, out, out!
‘I’ll … uh. I’ll call in on Maisie, see what she has to say about it,’ he stammered.
‘Be careful,’ Jim warned. ‘She was talking about changing her accountant not so long ago; saying she wouldn’t mind giving us a shot at doing her books. Don’t go getting involved in a conflict of interests, Graham.’
Graham stood. His eyes creased with genuine mirth as he leaned towards his friend.
‘A conflict of interests? In Drumdarg?’
They all laughed. It was too daft for words.
‘We’ll get the one o’clock bus from the Whig,’ Rose said, avoiding her son’s gaze.
‘I don’t know why I have to come to the town with you,’ Barra grumbled. ‘And if we see anyone from school, I’m walking off.’
‘Don’t give me a hard time, Barra. How d’you think I could concentrate on my messages, with you wandering about the woods looking for some headcase of a boy pretending to be an angel?’
‘He is an angel,’ Barra insisted.
‘He is not!’ Rose thumped her string bag with the two library books on the table, making Barra jump.
‘Come on, son,’ she said, her voice quieter. ‘You’ve earned your pocket money. We could enjoy the afternoon together. I hardly get any time with you any more.’
‘It’s not that, Mam. Honest, it’s not.’ Barra’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s just … it’s cissy going up the town with yir mother.’
‘You don’t have to stay right beside me,’ Rose wheedled. ‘We can meet up after I’ve done the messages. Go to Bremner’s, maybe.’
Not even the thought of Bremner’s fresh cream cakes could interest Barra.
‘I’d rather stay.’
Rose drew a deep breath. ‘Barra, you’ve had all night to think about this, and all morning too. Surely you can see how ridiculous the whole thing is?’
‘But that’s just it, Mam,’ Barra argued. ‘The more I think about it, the … the realer it is! He has to be an angel. He just has to be.’
Barra pulled himself up on the draining-board, something he seldom did in Chalmers’ presence, his legs swinging wildly with the thrill of his conviction.
‘And he said we have things to take care of. Me and him, Mam. The pair of us!’
Rose grabbed his knees, halting Barra’s movement. Never in her life had she been tempted to raise her hand to her son, but she really felt like clattering him now.
‘People don’t see angels, Barra, far less talk to them.’
‘Catholics do. They see them all the time.’
‘Catholics are … they’re … they’re brainwashed,’ Rose said, exasperated beyond measure.
‘The Yaks aren’t brainwashed. They brainwash everyone else,’ Barra answered, his eyes glowing with determination.
Rose glanced at her watch. ‘We’re going to miss the bus if you don’t hurry.’
‘Mam …’
‘No, Barra. I’m sorry, but no.’ Rose reached behind her son to pick up the old shaving mirror, and turned to retrieve her lipstick from her handbag. She painted on another coat of ‘Pink Frost’ and checked her eyeliner. No way Sheena Mearns was going to see her looking less than her best. Then she fished for a hairpin, pulling it through her fringe to separate each lacquered strand. Finally, Rose checked for spaces in her backcombing and, satisfied, turned to replace the mirror.
Barra hadn’t moved.
Rose picked up her books and her handbag, and reached for the door handle. ‘Go ’n’ get yir blazer and comb yir hair.’
Barra slid to the floor and trundled through to the hall. He reappeared, shrugging into the jacket with one arm and using his free hand to press down his wiry curls.
Rose sighed again.
‘Can I get a cream hornet at Bremner’s then?’ he asked, appearing quite broken-hearted at the prospect.
In spite of herself, Rose smiled. ‘If you want. Now hurry up!’
They walked in companionable silence down the road and around the corner to the Whig. As they approached, Rose spoke again.
‘Watch at the stop. Call me if you see the bus.’
‘Don’t say too much to Olive, Mam,’ Barra implored. ‘She’s no’ the type to believe in angels.’
Rose disappeared into the shop.
Barra raked the woods with his eyes, but there was little movement. Trees stirred here and there as birds flew among their branches, an almost soundless rustling in the warm, sweet stillness of the afternoon.
As he watched, Barra became aware of the swell of birdsong and he closed his eyes, lifting his face to the melody. The glory of it filled him, and he took a long, deep breath, inhaling the sound of it deep into his being.
He was standing like that as Rose stepped back out into the sunshine. She stopped in her tracks, and somewhere inside her a new fear took root. God, she thought, look at him there, his hair shining and that smile on him. If ever a boy was touched by the angels … Please don’t take him now, God. Don’t take him from me now.
She shook her head violently. You’re as daft as he is, Rose Maclean, she told herself. But her own heart had gone somewhere else for a little while, and she felt a sudden chill in the April air.
‘Barra!’
He opened his eyes, smiling still.
‘Olive
