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to realise, and he often wished that he might be a young boy again, untroubled by confusions of the blood. Whanging away on a fence post with an iron-headed hammer was one way to cast out devils and Craig worked rapidly from section to section, setting the posts and leaving the stringing of wire until he ran out of stobs or of energy.
    By dinner-time, when the sun had grown almost hot, Craig felt better. He had worked up a thirst for the cold tea in his bottle and hunger for the bread and cheese that Mam had packed into his sack. He had come a long way, though, from his jacket. He had skirted full half the field, lugging and planting and hammering, and he walked slowly back around the perimeter with the hammer over his shoulder, thinking, calmly and pleasantly, how good it would be to go home tonight and find Kirsty there, to have her at the supper-table along with folk he cared about and who cared for him.
    It surprised him to discover his father seated against the dry-stone wall, tea-bottle uncorked and pipe smoking like a little lum. Bob Nicholson offered the bottle to his son.
    ‘You could do with a swig o’ this, I fancy.’
    The bottle had been in the shadow of the wall all morning and was cold to the fingers, the weak astringent liquid cold on the tongue.
    Craig drank, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He reached for his jacket and draped it over his shoulders for, now that he had stopped, he realised that the day might be bright but was not warm after all. He studied his father curiously.
    ‘What might you be doin’ here?’ he asked.
    Bob Nicholson shrugged. ‘Visitin’. See how you’re gettin’ on with the fence.’
    ‘I’m gettin’ on fine with the fence.’
    ‘Sit yourself down, son.’
    Craig did not obey. ‘Have you been at the pub?’
    ‘Been at the pub? Me!’ Bob said in an injured tone. ‘Hell, I’ve been puttin’ in my hours at Bankhead, tendin’ spring calves.’
    Craig seated himself on the grass, unwrapped his bread and cheese and bit into the sandwich. He did not glance at his father but sniffed, trying to catch the whiff of spirits, the old man’s musk. The faint sharpness was there, as usual. Craig sighed and watched a pair of buzzards away above the hill turn slow, soft and heavy on the pale currents of air. Something had brought his father here, something more than companionability or the desire to inspect the fence. Craig munched bread and cheese, sucked tea from the bottle, kept silent.
    At length Bob said, ‘I think she’s gone to the Baird.’
    Craig said, ‘What would she have gone there for? She’s safer with us, is she not?’
    ‘Not Kirsty; your mother.’
    ‘Mam?’
    ‘Aye. I saw her best coat laid out, an’ her Sunday hat. She’s headed for somewhere special. My guess is she’s catchin’ the train to Maybole to seek “official advice”.’ Bob paused. ‘I’m not inebriated, son.’
    ‘I never said you were.’
    ‘I haven’t lost my reason, either.’
    ‘Just what are you drivin’ at?’
    ‘She’ll have the lass back with Clegg before the day’s out.’
    ‘I’ll not allow it.’
    ‘When her mind’s made up you – not even you – can stop her.’
    ‘Christ! Do you know what Clegg’ll do if he gets Kirsty back?’
    ‘I can well imagine,’ said Bob.
    ‘I’ll throttle the bastard before I’ll see that happen.’
    The movement was small. Bob dipped two fingers into his breast pocket and plucked out what appeared to be a spill of paper. He offered it casually to Craig.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘Money. Four five-pound notes.’
    Craig stopped chewing and, hands on knees, leaned forward and peered at the spill suspiciously. ‘What in God’s name are you doin’ with twenty quid?’
    ‘It’s for you.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘Take the lass an’ get out of here,’ Bob Nicholson said. ‘Go before your mam gets back.’
    ‘Ach, Dad. I could never—’
    ‘Heed my advice, Craig. If you love this girl—’
    ‘I’m not sure I – Look,